“Who is she?” Ethan whispered.
“A pediatric nurse. Five years at Lakeshore Children’s Hospital. She lost her daughter and walked away from medicine.”
Ethan found Naomi two days later at a women’s shelter in Southside Chicago, serving food to mothers and children.
“I was wrong,” he said. “About everything.”
“That doesn’t change what happened,” Naomi replied without turning around. “I crossed a line, remember?”
“You crossed no line,” he said. “You stayed when I didn’t.”
She finally faced him. “The second I cared too much, I became a threat. We both know why.”
He nodded. “You’re right. I saw what I was taught to fear. I’m sorry.”
She didn’t forgive him. Not yet.
Three days later, Naomi returned—not as staff, but through the front door. The boys ran to her like they’d been holding their breath.
Later, she laid out her terms. She wasn’t a maid. She made decisions for the boys. Mandatory family counseling. A salary that reflected her role. And if he ever raised his voice at her again, she was gone.
Ethan agreed to all of it.
The house changed. Meals together. Bedtime stories. Naming emotions. Ethan learned to stay.
Then the custody petition arrived.
Negligence. Instability. And worst of all—Naomi’s daughter’s death twisted into a weapon.
“They’ll use me against you,” Naomi said quietly.
“We fight together,” Ethan said.
In court, they tried to break her. Forced her to relive her daughter’s death. Suggested she was dangerous.
Ethan stood when he shouldn’t have. “She saved my children,” he said. “You’re punishing her for it.”
The judge asked to see the boys privately.
“She stays,” Oliver said simply. “Everyone else left.”
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