“What are you doing in my bed?” Ethan Cole’s voice cut through the room as he stood frozen in the doorway of his bedroom, travel-worn suit creased, briefcase slipping from his hand.
In the center of his bed lay Naomi Brooks, the housekeeper. Curled around her, asleep for the first time in half a year, were his three sons.
Naomi opened her eyes slowly. Calm. No fear.
“Mr. Cole,” she said softly. “I can explain.”
He didn’t listen. His face hardened. “You’re fired. Leave. Now.”
Naomi didn’t argue. She eased herself out from between the boys without waking them. She brushed Leo’s hair back, tucked the blanket around Micah, whispered something to Oliver. Then she walked past Ethan, shoes in hand, head held high.
Downstairs, Mrs. Alvarez paused when she saw Naomi’s face—steady, but shattered.
“It’s alright,” Naomi said quietly. “Goodbye.”
The door closed behind her. Naomi Brooks stepped into the cold Chicago night alone.
Upstairs, Ethan stared at his sons. They were sleeping. Really sleeping. After twenty-two nannies, specialists, and therapists, the impossible had happened.
On the nightstand lay a folded note.
“They asked me not to leave them alone in the dark. Sometimes that’s all a child needs.”
Shame hit him hard. He hadn’t asked questions. He’d seen a Black woman in his bed with his white children, and his mind went exactly where it had been trained to go.
By morning, the house unraveled. Screaming. Panic. Oliver cried for Naomi. Leo rocked in the corner. Micah stood silent, tears streaming.
“You made her leave,” Oliver yelled. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”
Mrs. Alvarez pulled Ethan aside. “Do you know what happened last night?” she asked calmly. “They locked themselves in your room. Naomi spent twenty minutes calming them before they even opened the door. She’s been helping them for weeks.”
She showed him photos. Naomi bandaging Leo’s knee. Reading to the boys. Then one more.
“Last month, Leo choked. Naomi saved his life. She didn’t want to worry you.”
See more on the next page
Advertisement
