Before I could mellow them, the words tumbled out.
“I am not your maid!”
After that the room went silent. The kind of silence that rubs against your ears. Plates were still on the table, crumbs like little witnesses. I wondered for a while whether I had crossed the line, but the truth was already there and would not be recovered.
It was the same rhythm daily. Rise early. Clean the kitchen. Get up garments not mine. Dishes someone else had dirtied should be washed. I transport everyone's little careless messes on my back like invisible luggage; clean tables and sweep floors. No one asked. Nobody said thanks to me. Just like the sun rising, it was just assumed.
Though short, the sentence held months of muted anger. Though I held my hands at my sides, they trembled slightly. Standing there seemed odd, as though I had entered a quieter version of myself that had been silent for far too long.