How was her day? Did she eat? Did she smile again? He still kept his distance. Still didn’t know how to be a father, but he was trying. Felicia saw it. The way he’d linger in doorways. The way he’d watched them from the hallway. The way he looked at Jasmine like he was remembering something he thought he’d lost.
That morning, Felicia made a decision. Her PT training had been screaming at her for days. Jasmine’s muscles were strong. Her body worked perfectly. She just needed to remember that moving was safe. She needed therapeutic play. Midm morning, sunlight poured through Jasmine’s window. Felicia wore yoga pants and a sweatshirt instead of her usual work clothes.
She spread a thick mat on the floor. Jasmine, you want to try something fun today? The little girl looked up. Curious. Felicia lay on her back, bent her knees. Come here, sweetie. Jasmine hesitated, then slowly, so slowly, scooted closer. Felicia lifted her carefully, placed her belly down on her shins, holding herhands firmly.
Ready for takeoff, she started rocking gently side to side, and something incredible happened. Jasmine’s legs engaged, her core activated, her body remembered what it was supposed to do, her face lit up, eyes wide, mouth open. We’re flying over Boston. I see the park. I see the river. Jasmine’s arms spread out like wings, and she laughed.
Full, bright, beautiful laughter. Felicia’s heart soared. Look at you. You’re flying,” she rocked a little more. Jasmine giggling, her little body working, moving, alive. The door slammed open. Jake stood there, eyes wild, face white. “What are you doing?” His voice was a roar. Felicia froze. Jake rushed forward, grabbed Jasmine off her roughly, pulled her away.
Jasmine immediately went silent, tears filling her eyes. “She could have fallen. She could have been hurt. What the hell were you thinking?” Felicia stood up slowly. Mr. Morrison, it’s a therapeutic technique. You’re not her therapist. His voice shook with rage, with terror. You’re the maid. The words hit like a slap. I’m the only one actually helping her.
Felicia said quietly. Get out. His voice dropped. Cold. Final. Pack your things. You’re fired. Jasmine started crying, reaching for Felicia. But Jake held her tight, turning away. Felicia stood there, hands shaking, not from anger, from grief. Because she’d been so close, so close to reaching this child, and now it was over.
She walked to her room, started packing her duffel bag, tears falling on the same worn clothes she’d arrived with. Downstairs, Jake sat in Jasmine’s room, holding her as she sobbed, his heart pounding, his mind screaming. I almost lost her. I almost lost her again. But somewhere underneath the fear, a small voice whispered, “You just did.
” Margaret got the call from the housekeeper 30 minutes later. She walked into the house and knew immediately. The silence was different now, not just empty, shattered. She found Jake in his office, head in his hands. “What did you do?” He looked up. “I protected my daughter. You destroyed her only hope.” Mom, she was being reckless.
Clare died because a drunk driver ran a red light. Margaret’s voice cut through him like glass. Jasmine is dying because you’re too terrified to let her live. Jake stood. That’s not fair. Fair. Margaret’s eyes filled with tears. That little girl hasn’t walked in 18 months. And for 3 weeks, she’s been smiling, laughing, engaging.
And you just threw away the only person who made that happen. I can’t lose her. His voice broke. I can’t. Then stop pushing away everyone who tries to help you. Hold on. Margaret left him there. Found Felicia at the bus stop on Charles Street. Snow falling, thin jacket, duffel bag at her feet. Felicia. She looked up, eyes read. Mrs. Morrison, I should have asked permission. No. Margaret sat beside her.
You did what you were trained to do. My son is broken, and he’s breaking everything good he touches. Felicia wiped her eyes. He made his choice. He made a mistake. Margaret’s voice was gentle. Give him a chance to fix it. I can’t keep surviving on other people’s may. Felicia’s voice cracked. I have my own family to save.
Margaret pulled an envelope from her purse. 2 months pay and my number. When he comes to his senses, and he will please answer. She stood, touched Felicia’s shoulder, and left. Back at the house, Jake went to Jasmine’s room. She was curled in the corner holding her elephant. Won’t look at him. He sat beside her. I’m sorry, baby. I just wanted to keep you safe.
Nothing. She was stone again. Silent again. Gone again. I’m scared. He whispered. When mommy died, I thought I lost everything, but I still had you. And if I lost you, too. His voice broke. I don’t know how to do this without being afraid. Jasmine didn’t move. Jake sat there for an hour, then two, finally stood, went to the garage, sat in his car in the dark.
Margaret’s words echoing. You’re too terrified to let her live. He pulled out his phone, stared at it, typed, “Please come back.” Deleted it. Typed, “I was wrong.” Deleted it. His hands shook. He thought about Jasmine’s laughter. The sound he hadn’t heard in 18 months. Thought about how alive she’d looked, how happy.
He typed, “She needs you. I need you. Can we try again?” His finger hovered over. send everything in him screaming not to do this, not to hope, not to trust, because hope meant risk, and risk meant loss. But staying here in this tomb of fear and silence meant losing her anyway. He closed his eyes, pressed send, and waited.
In the falling snow at the bus stop, Felicia’s phone buzzed. She looked at the screen, read the message, and felt something inside her crack open. Felicia stood in the snow, staring at those words. She needs you. I need you. Can we try again? The bus pulled up. Doors opened. She didn’t move. The driver looked at her. You getting on or not? She thought about her mother.
About Maya, about the bills waiting, thought about Jasmine, those hazel eyes, thatsmall hand offering the elephant, the laughter that had filled that cold house for the first time in 18 months. “No,” she said quietly. I’m not. The bus pulled away. She turned back toward Beacon Hill. Christmas Eve morning. The house felt different when she walked in.
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