Lila Whitaker was eight years old.
She had inherited her father’s dark hair and her late mother’s soft green eyes. Two years earlier, after a long illness, Lila’s mother had passed away, leaving behind a quiet space in their home that never seemed to fill again.
At first, Lila cried every night.
Then she cried less.
Then she stopped talking about her mother altogether.
Every counselor Adrian spoke to told him the same thing.
Children grieve differently.
Give her time.
Adrian tried to believe them.
He buried himself in work because that was the only thing he knew how to control. Long meetings. Late evenings at the office. Promotions and contracts that looked impressive on paper but meant little when the house felt empty.
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