The grief hadn’t lessened with time. It had simply been buried under schedules, flights, negotiations, and exhaustion. I had entrusted my children to caregivers, and then to a woman who seemed like a godsend at that moment. Patricia Moore. A close friend of Rebecca’s. Attentive, elegant, endlessly patient. Or so I thought.
Patricia came into my life when everything felt broken. She organized the house, soothed Ava’s tears, stayed up with newborn Lucas, and spoke kindly to me when words seemed impossible. Within a year, we were married. The world applauded the miracle. The widower saved. The children with a mother. Patricia played her part flawlessly. At charity dinners, she spoke tenderly about the children. The staff praised her. I became convinced that gratitude was love.
That night, as I closed my briefcase, a voice I had been avoiding began to rise. “When was the last time you tucked Ava into bed? Do you know what Lucas sounds like when he laughs?”
My eyes burned as a memory surfaced. Rebecca kneeling in the garden, Ava running through rows of flowers. A promise whispered by a hospital bedside. I will never abandon them.
Something changed. Not tomorrow. Tonight. I left my keys on the desk and drove home. The roads were quiet. Hope stirred as I imagined Ava running toward me, Lucas reaching out his trembling hands. Even Patricia, I supposed, would welcome my return.
The gates to our estate opened slowly. The lawn was immaculate, the lights shining warmly on the trimmed hedges. Yet the silence felt off. No voices. No music. Only the fountain and the insects buzzing in the darkness.
Inside, the house smelled of roses but felt empty.
—Patricia—I called.
