“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, my love.”
Nathaniel didn’t move. He stood silent, watching.
That night, not a word was spoken, but the house felt colder. Hours later, Maya laid Lily in her crib. She never closed her own eyes.
By dawn, Mrs. Delaney found her in the nursery corner, wide awake, hands trembling.
“Just sleep beside her,” the older woman whispered, glancing at the peacefully dreaming child.
Nathaniel said nothing at breakfast. His tie was crooked, his coffee untouched.
The second night, Maya tucked Lily in and stepped away. The child screamed. Mrs. Delaney rushed in. Nathaniel tried. Nothing soothed her.
Only when Maya returned, whispering with open arms, did Lily settle.
On the third night, Nathaniel lingered outside the nursery door. He didn’t step in. He listened. No screaming. Just a faint lullaby, half-hummed.
He knocked softly.
“Maya.”
She opened.
“I need to speak with you.”
She slipped out, shutting the door carefully behind her.
“I owe you an apology,” Nathaniel admitted.
Silence.
“Why?” Maya asked evenly—neither tender nor harsh, just steady.
“Because of the way I spoke. Because of what I said. It was cruel. It was wrong.”
“Lily knows truth,” she replied.
“She doesn’t care about status or money. She only needs warmth.”
“I know. She… she won’t rest unless she feels safe.”
“I know,” she repeated. “And she’s not the only one.”
“I’m sorry, Maya.”
