The singing stopped instantly. The girls flinched, shrinking together. Lucy dropped the whisk, her face pale.
“Mr. Hayes…” she began softly.
“I pay you to clean and supervise—not to let my daughters climb all over the furniture like this is some cheap apartment!” he snapped, striding forward, fists clenched. “You’re fired. Get out of my house. Now.”
The girls’ breathing quickened. Their eyes filled with pure terror.
No one in that room understood the devastation that was about to follow.
The silence that settled afterward was heavier than anything the house had known before.
Lucy didn’t beg. She didn’t cry.
With quiet dignity, she wiped her flour-covered hands on her apron, nodded once, and gently lifted each girl down from the counter.
“Yes, sir,” she said calmly. “I’ll leave.”
Sophie, Olivia, and Chloe said nothing. Holding hands, heads bowed, they walked upstairs. As they passed him, Alexander caught a glimpse of their faces.
They weren’t looking at him with sadness.
They were afraid of him.
Truly afraid.
When the back door closed behind Lucy, Alexander sank onto a stool. He stared at the unfinished batter, the scattered flour, the small pink hair bows left behind on the counter.
That night, alone in his study, rain pouring outside, he poured himself a glass of whiskey.
A knock came at the door.
“Come in,” he muttered.
Mrs. Carmichael entered, holding a tablet.
“The girls didn’t eat dinner,” she said quietly. “And I think you need to see this.”
“I’m not in the mood for reports,” he replied. “I made a mistake. I’ll hire someone better tomorrow.”
She looked at him sharply.
“No, sir. You didn’t make a mistake. You committed an atrocity.”
Before he could respond, she tapped the screen.
A video began to play.
It showed the kitchen—earlier that morning. Lucy adjusted the camera as the girls giggled.
“Ready, my loves?” Lucy’s voice said warmly. “Remember, this is a surprise for Daddy. It has to be perfect when he gets home—because tomorrow is his 40th birthday.”
Alexander’s breath caught.
He had forgotten his own birthday.
On screen, the girls faced the camera. Sophie stepped forward, her tiny hands trembling.
“Daddy…” she whispered—her voice soft but clear. The first time he’d heard her speak in eighteen months. “Lucy said you’re not mad at us. She said you work so much because you’re sad about Mommy. We wanted to bake you a vanilla cake, like she used to.”