Daniel Brooks couldn’t process what he was seeing. For months after his wife’s death, Emma and Lily had done nothing but cry and reject every attempt at comfort. Now they were laughing, their fingers smeared with bright colors, while Chloe—hired only to clean—guided them gently, with a patience he himself had never managed.
Daniel stood still, his chest tightening the way it had at Olivia’s funeral. In front of him was proof that he had failed to reach his daughters, while a 23-year-old employee had succeeded with a few canvases and leftover paint.
He slowly slid open the glass door. The sound made Chloe look up instantly. She froze, brush midair, fear flashing across her face.
“Mr. Brooks,” she said quickly, standing and wiping her hands on her apron. “I can explain. The girls asked me to paint with them. I used supplies I had from volunteering at a community center. I didn’t mean to cross a line— they just seemed so sad, and I thought maybe—”
“Don’t stop,” Daniel said, his voice thick. “Please. Keep going.”
She blinked, confused, then slowly sat back down.
“Daddy, look at mine!” Emma called, holding up a crooked sun and a tiny dog.
Daniel stepped closer. The sparkle in her eyes was something he hadn’t seen in months.
“It’s beautiful,” he said honestly.
Lily tugged his sleeve. “I painted the fountain.”
“You’ve always noticed details,” he told her.
She smiled shyly. “Chloe says I’m observant.”
Daniel glanced at Chloe. She lowered her eyes. “I just told her that noticing things helps artists.”
He stayed, watching the three of them, feeling the garden—once painfully silent—come alive.
“How long has this been going on?” he asked.
“Since yesterday!” Emma answered. “Chloe paints really good!”
Only then did he truly notice Chloe’s canvas: a delicate, almost photographic rendering of the stone fountain.
“Where did you learn?” he asked.
“My mom taught art at a public school,” she said softly. “She started teaching me when I was little. I couldn’t afford formal training.”
“You’re talented,” he said plainly.
The twins beamed as if the praise belonged to them.
“I asked Mrs. Harper if we could use the garden,” Chloe added, referring to the cook. “I thought the sun would help.”
It stung that she hadn’t asked him—but he knew why.
“You did the right thing,” he admitted.