PART 1

“I want you to bathe him in our tub.

And please, don’t call the staff.

Do it yourself.”

I thought my husband had completely lost his mind.

My name is Mariana.

I’m thirty-six years old, and until that afternoon, I believed I knew every single thing about the man I’d been married to for fifteen years.

Julian owned a series of major commercial construction firms across Chicago.

He had more money than we could ever spend, but he possessed a habit that sometimes drove me to my wit’s end: whenever he set his mind on a charitable crusade, nothing on earth could stop him.

That week, he had decided to personally volunteer at a soup kitchen near the bus terminal downtown.

He claimed he was tired of just writing big corporate checks for photo opportunities and wanted to meet the people receiving aid face-to-face.

I didn’t share his sudden enthusiasm.

“Some people genuinely need a hand up,” I had scoffed that morning over coffee.

“But plenty of others just prefer living that way.”

How easy those words rolled off my tongue from the comfort of my climate-controlled home, with a cook preparing breakfast and a private driver waiting outside.

I understood nothing back then.

Late that afternoon, I returned from a lunch date with friends to find Julian standing in our grand foyer alongside an elderly man who looked as though he had lived on the streets for decades.

His hair was a tangled, matted mess, his skin was caked in layers of dark grime, and he wore a threadbare coat that made me cover my nose and step back.