The screens began to flicker rapidly as months of footage sped backward.

The colors blurred into a gray-and-green smear.

“Stop,” my father said.

The screen froze on a dusty afternoon in late October.

The camera angle showed the small courtyard behind the kitchen where Rosa usually sat to peel vegetables.

On the screen, Rosa was sitting on her wooden stool.

Her shoulders were hunched, and her hands were clasped in her lap.

Patricia was standing over her.

Patricia was wearing a bright white tennis skirt, her hair tied back in a neat ponytail.

Even without sound, the tension between them was obvious.

My father clicked a button to enable the directional microphone audio from that day.

A static hiss filled the small monitoring room.

Then, Patricia’s voice came through the speakers, sharp and clear.

“You are an old woman, Rosa,” Patricia was saying on the recording.

Rosa did not look up.

“I have worked for this family for twenty years,” Rosa whispered.

Patricia laughed, a short, dry sound.

“Twenty years of cleaning toilets does not make you family,” Patricia said.