Jake was a ghost, leaving at six, returning after nine, never asking about Jasmine, never meeting Felicia’s eyes, acting like the house ran itself.
On day five, snow fell, and Felicia cried quietly by the window, and then she felt a small hand touch her knee.
Jasmine moved for the first time since Felicia arrived, pushing the stuffed elephant toward her like an offering, and their eyes met in recognition.
Felicia accepted the elephant gently, whispering thanks, and Jasmine didn’t smile yet, but she truly looked at Felicia’s face, as if memorizing safety.
That evening Jake came home early and heard Felicia humming in the kitchen, and the sound hit him like a fist because Clare used to hum too.
He snapped that Felicia was staff, not family, and she answered quietly that she knew who she was, then asked if he did.
Jake walked away, but the question followed him into his office, because grief had turned him into a stranger wearing his own life.
Week two brought a blizzard that trapped him at home, forcing him to hear his house again, and to hear Felicia talking to Jasmine nonstop.
Near noon he heard gospel music from Jasmine’s room, warm and imperfect, like someone singing because the silence was too dangerous to keep.
He told himself not to listen, but then a small breathy giggle cut through the hall, and his heart stopped like it recognized a miracle.
He moved toward the cracked door, hands shaking, and saw Felicia making ridiculous snow-angel motions on the floor to make Jasmine laugh.
Jasmine laughed—bright, ringing laughter—and Jake pressed a hand to the doorframe, tears coming hard, because that sound had been dead for eighteen months.
He backed away before they saw him, broke in his office, and called Margaret with a voice that cracked, telling her Jasmine laughed.
Margaret cried too and reminded him her name was Felicia, not “the maid,” and Jake finally understood how cruel distance can become.
That night he came to dinner, watched Felicia feed Jasmine with silly faces and constant chatter, and asked quietly how she did it.
Felicia told him she only reminded Jasmine that joy still existed, and Jake admitted he forgot that too, and she said Jasmine needed him to remember.
By December twentieth, Jake came home earlier, asked questions, lingered in doorways, trying to be a father while still terrified of losing again.
Felicia’s training screamed that Jasmine’s body was strong, that her mind was locked in protection, and that safe movement needed play, not pressure.
One bright morning she spread a mat, wore yoga pants, and invited Jasmine closer, promising something fun, and the child’s curiosity finally surfaced.
Felicia rocked Jasmine gently like an airplane, and Jasmine’s legs engaged, her core activated, and laughter burst out as her body remembered safety.
The door slammed open, and Jake roared in panic, yanking Jasmine away, because fear makes love look like control when you don’t know better.
He called Felicia reckless, shouted that she was the maid, and fired her, and Jasmine cried reaching for Felicia while the house snapped back toward silence.
Felicia packed her duffel with shaking hands and tears, while Jake held Jasmine and heard an ugly truth under his fear: he just lost her again.
Margaret returned furious, telling Jake Clare died to a drunk driver, but Jasmine was dying because he was too terrified to let her live.
She found Felicia at a bus stop in falling snow, handed her two months’ pay and her number, begging her to answer when Jake came back.
Back home, Jasmine curled in the corner with her elephant, refusing Jake’s apologies, and he finally admitted aloud that he didn’t know how to be brave.
In his car, he typed messages and deleted them, because hope felt like risk, and risk felt like the door grief always uses to return.
Finally he sent the truth: “She needs you, I need you, can we try again,” and the moment he pressed send, he chose life over fear.
At the bus stop, Felicia read the message as the bus arrived, and she didn’t move, because Jasmine’s laughter was louder than any engine.
She turned back toward Beacon Hill, deciding she wasn’t getting on, because some children become your responsibility the moment they offer you an elephant.
On Christmas Eve morning, Jake waited without Bluetooth or phone, looking hollow, and Felicia set her bag down saying she was there for Jasmine.
Jake asked for help for the first time in two years, and Felicia demanded he participate, learn, and show up as a father, not a warden.
Jasmine stayed in her corner until she saw Felicia, then her eyes flickered, and her hand reached out, and Felicia squeezed gently in return.
Jake knelt beside them, voice cracking with apologies, and Jasmine leaned into his arms, and he broke, whispering, “I’m here now.”
Over the next days, Felicia taught him play-based therapy, how to read cues, how to encourage without controlling, and how presence builds safety.
Christmas morning was small and quiet, but they tried the airplane game again, and Jasmine smiled at Jake, and he whispered, “There’s my girl.”
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