I ask Elena what she wants.
She wants to finish nursing school. She wants to protect children trapped in wealthy family wars.
So we build something together.
The Whitaker Foundation in Camille’s name. Legal aid. Medical advocacy. Safe placements.
I put Elena in charge.
Not because she’s a hero in a story.
Because she earned it.
On the first anniversary of Camille’s death, I sit in the nursery with my sons on my lap.
Elena stands hesitantly in the doorway.
I wave her in.
No cameras. No screens.
Just living hearts.
“I’m sorry I didn’t protect you,” I whisper—to Camille, to myself.
“But I will now.”
Lucas presses his forehead against my chest.
Ethan grips my finger.
And the nursery fills with something I thought I lost forever.
Not silence.
Hope.
