When Maris started sounding different over the phone, I knew something was off—but I had no idea how bad things really were. What I found when I showed up unannounced changed everything.
After I left for college in another city, I finally felt as if I could make a difference. Maris had spent most of her life giving first to my dad, then to me, and finally to her job. She worked long hours as a hospital administrator, always putting others first.
When she told me she was seeing someone from work, I was happy for her. She deserved love, companionship, and support—all of it. That man turned out to be Corvin.
I had met him briefly during my senior year. To be honest, he wasn’t awful. He smiled too much, talked too loudly, and always seemed to steer the conversation toward himself. But he didn’t raise any red flags. At least, not then.
Maris looked hopeful when she was with him, so I smiled, nodded, and told her I was happy if she was happy. They got married a few months after I moved. Life got busy with exams, internships, and my own life.
But I still called her often, and for years, everything seemed fine. Maris would tell me about Corvin’s fishing trips or their plans to see the fall leaves in Wisconsin. I believed she was happy—or at least that’s what I thought.
Then, something changed. It wasn’t obvious at first, just little things. Maris was sad but tried to hide it. When I asked her directly if everything was okay, she didn’t pause before quickly saying,
“I’m fine.”
It was the kind of “I’m fine” people say when they’re anything but.
One Sunday morning, I called her as usual.
“Hi, Mom. You sound tired.”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Just a lot of work lately.”
“You sure?”
“Mm-hmm. Just busy. You know how it is.”
I didn’t believe her. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I thought about the way she said “busy,” as if it hurt to even say the word.
The next morning, I took the day off work and drove straight to her house without telling her. I parked at the end of the street since the driveway was packed with snow. My little car had no chance without chains.
When I walked up the slippery path, I didn’t expect to see what I saw through the window. Maris was inside, her leg wrapped in a cast, scrubbing floors and carrying laundry, moving from room to room, leaning on furniture to stay upright.
I tried the front door, and it cracked open. There she was—sweating, pale, leaning hard on the kitchen doorframe.
“Mom?! What happened?!” I shouted.
She tried to smile. “Oh… honey. I slipped a few days ago. I broke my leg.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you,” she said, looking away.
“Mom, you’re hobbling around on a broken leg. That’s not something you keep to yourself.”
Then I really looked at the house. The kitchen was spotless, floors gleaming. A vacuum sat in the hallway. A mop bucket was beside the stairs.
“Why are you… cleaning while injured?” I asked, my voice rising.
Maris gave me a small nod and limped past me into the living room.
“Corvin’s daughter is coming tonight,” she said quietly. “He wants the house to look perfect.”
“Are you serious? He’s making you clean the house because of her?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Mom, what’s really going on?”
She sighed and finally sat down, cradling her leg on the ottoman.
“Corvin said it was important. His daughter, Azura, is very particular and demanding. He wants her to feel welcome.”
“Azura? The one with the Range Rover? The one who lives in that gated community?”
“Yes. He said it was important.”
“He told you to shovel snow too?” I asked.
“He said I could use the shovel to support myself,” she said hesitantly.
“Mom,” I said firmly, “tell me the truth. I’ll find out anyway.”
“He went ice fishing with Greg and Neil,” she admitted. “Said he’d be back before dinner and told me to handle everything.”
That was it. I didn’t scream, I didn’t yell, but I knew a man like Corvin wouldn’t respond to noise. He’d respond to action.
“Mom,” I said, taking her hand gently, “go sit in my car. I parked down the street.”
I helped her wrap in her coat and grabbed blankets from the upstairs closet. It hurt to watch her struggle down the porch steps. I held her elbow the entire way.
She slid into the passenger seat, exhausted and trembling, and I turned the heater to full blast.
Then I called for help. First, a private snow removal service. “I need all the snow from the three surrounding streets cleared onto the driveway within the hour,” I told them.
“Ma’am, that’s three blocks of work,” the guy said.
“I’m sure. Charge me what you need.”
Then I called the city, explained the unsafe property and Maris’s injury, gave them her doctor’s name, and sent photos of the cast, the snow, and the mop bucket.
Finally, I called her physician to send a nurse to check on her and document everything. It took about 45 minutes, but soon a crew arrived.
They had plows, salt sprayers, and industrial snow pushers. They didn’t just clear the snow—they piled it into high mounds around every edge of the house, burying the porch, blocking the garage, creating a fortress of ice.
About an hour later, I saw Corvin’s old gray pickup creep up the street. He hit the brakes hard when he saw the snow.
“What is this?!” he shouted. “What happened to my house?!”
I didn’t move, leaning against my car. Maris was still bundled in the passenger seat.
Dennis—no, Corvin—stormed up the sidewalk, slipping twice before catching himself.
“You might want to wait before calling the police,” I said calmly.
“What? Mira? What are you—”
I gestured to the end of the block. Two city vehicles turned the corner, and an inspector stepped out. Behind them came Azura.
She froze, staring at the house. Then she looked at Maris and the car.
“Is that… Maris?” she whispered.
Maris smiled weakly. “Hi, Azura.”
Azura knelt by the passenger side. “What happened? Your leg—oh my God, you’re in a cast!”
“I slipped a few days ago,” Maris said.
“Why did you… clean everything?” Azura asked.
Corvin stepped between them. “It’s not what it looks like. She insisted!”
“Wait, you made her clean with a broken leg?” Azura said, stunned.
“She said she could handle it!” Corvin stammered.
I stepped forward. “You left her alone to avoid embarrassment in front of your daughter. That’s what this was about.”
Azura took Maris’s hand. “I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have had to go through this.”
I helped Maris out of the car and into the backseat. Azura helped fold blankets over her lap. Corvin was still shouting, red-faced, but nobody paid him much attention.
The driveway was still buried, the porch unusable, the windows surrounded by packed snow. It was a fortress of cold and silence.
We drove home. I helped Maris into soft pajamas and made her soup. Two weeks later, she filed for divorce.
Corvin tried digging out the snow himself. He slipped on the porch and twisted his back. Karma really does wear boots sometimes.
At my apartment, Maris healed. She napped, drank hot tea, and I brought her flowers every Friday.
One night, she said softly, “You really saved me, you know.”
“I just did what anyone would’ve done.”
“Not everyone would’ve seen through me. You did.”
“Well, you’re a terrible liar,” I said.
She laughed, a full, real laugh—the sound I’d missed most.