Rosa arrived at nine sharp on Wednesday morning with a quiet knock and a small wheeled caddy of supplies.

Victoria opened the door herself, already dressed for the office, and ushered her in with the bright, efficient warmth she used with new hires. Elena stood a few steps back in the entryway, sweater sleeves pulled over her hands, the highest bruise on her collarbone hidden but still tender every time the fabric shifted. Marcus came down the stairs a moment later, coffee in hand, expression easy and open in the way he had practiced for years.

“Rosa, this is my husband Marcus and my daughter Elena,” Victoria said. “They’ll both...