The first snow came early that year. Elmsworth was awash in gray skies and frost-kissed rooftops by the fourth week of November. The chill sank into everything—bones, breaths, and silences.Richard stirred the fireplace in the study, watching the orange glow fight the cold shadows creeping through the corners of the room. Carter lay curled on the couch, fast asleep with one of his toy soldiers on his chest. Meredith sat by the window, knees to her chest, doodling absently in her sketchpad.Florence stepped in with a folded shawl, placing it gently over Carter’s shoulders.“He’s been sleeping more,” she murmured.“It’s the weather,” Richard replied, though they both knew better. The cold wasn’t just outside.There was an absence in the house that not even firewood could warm.Florence cleared her throat. “I’ve arranged for someone to help in the afternoons. Just for a few hours. A nanny—retired teacher. Good woman.”Richard looked up, expression guarded.“She’s not replacing anyone,” F
The sun had started to dip below the horizon by the time Richard parked outside the convent in Boston. The cool air of early evening rolled in through his partially opened window, but he didn’t feel it. He’d been sitting in the car for over ten minutes. Watching. Waiting. And there she was. Monet stood in the center of the small garden, her journal clutched to her chest. Her braids caught the fading light like threads of gold. She looked... lighter. Still tired, maybe, but not broken. Not in the way he felt. Richard’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. Then Kyle appeared. The gate creaked open, and there he was—clean-shaven, tailored coat, too perfect stance. Richard tensed. His first instinct was to step out of the car, to interrupt. To what? Stake a claim? He had no claim. He watched as Monet turned toward Kyle, her shoulders stiffening. They talked. Not loud enough for him to hear, but their body language spoke volumes. Her arms crossed, her jaw tense. Kyle sto
TEN YEARS AGO “I want to be a mother,” Monet said softly. “I want to hold my own child, rock them to sleep, console them when they're sad, go to their games and cook them lunch and breakfast, bake cookies and all the works.” She rushed the words out. The fear that the thought alone might be too big, too impossible, made her say it quickly, as if she slowed down, it would crumble before it left her lips.She was eighteen, seated in the quiet convent library, her hands fisted tightly on her thighs atop her soft white habit. Outside, snow clung to the windowsill in thick, white clumps. But inside, everything felt smaller. Safer. Except for the dream she had just spoken aloud.Sister Margaret looked up from her embroidery, her forehead crinkling with gentle curiosity. “Why does that scare you?” Monet shrugged, eyes still on the steam curling from her cup. “Because it feels selfish. Because wanting something doesn’t mean you get it. And maybe I don’t deserve it.
The morning light poured in through the tall windows of the Elmsworth manor, stretching long shadows across the tiled floors. Richard stood in the kitchen, his hand clenched around a chipped mug of black coffee he hadn’t touched. The silence in the house was louder than it had been in years.Not since Hannah died.Not since Monet arrived.Now she was gone too.Florence sat at the kitchen island, her newspaper folded neatly in front of her, untouched like his drink. She watched her grandson with the same calculating, tender eyes she’d used since he was a boy. Richard had always been difficult to read, his emotions caged behind a glass wall. But not today.Today, the cracks were all too visible."You haven't told them yet," she said, not a question.He didn't answer."They're children, Richard. But they're not fools. Meredith knows. Carter too, in his own quiet way."He gritted his teeth, the mug finally meeting the counter with a sharp thud. "What do you want me to say, grandma? That s
Richard woke to sunlight pressing through the flimsy motel curtains. A dull, unfamiliar warmth spread over his skin. The sheet rode low across his waist, the mattress still holding the faintest indentation of the body that had shared it last night.He sat up slowly.Her scent still lingered faintly on the pillow beside him.His eyes flicked across the room—scant, dated decor, peeling wallpaper, humming air conditioner. But it wasn’t the room that stopped him.It was the other bed.Still made. Untouched. His folded tee-shirt and basketball shorts placed neatly on top. Her tote and purse—gone.A slow, sinking dread filled him.“Monet,” he muttered, even though he knew she wasn’t here.He stumbled to the bathroom. Empty. The air still smelled of last night’s vanilla soap and warm skin, but she was nowhere.Heart pounding now, he grabbed his jeans and shirt, pulling them on as he rushed out to the front desk.The receptionist, a bored man with a fading afro, barely looked up from his worn
FOUR YEARS AGOThe house was usually alive with something, shoes flung near the stairs, Meredith’s crayons staining the table, Hannah humming off-key in the kitchen as she made another disaster. But not tonight.As Richard Abbott stepped into the mudroom and toed off his brogues, silence greeted him like a stranger.Too clean. Too still.The cleaning lady must have come by. But even that didn’t explain the unsettling hush. He loosened his tie, slipping his suit jacket over the hook by the doorway, and moved through the empty hallway, the faint scent of lavender still lingering in the air.“Darling? Meredith?” he called out, voice echoing faintly.He passed the kitchen-spotless. The den-quiet. The garden-empty.His steps quickened.Upstairs, their bedroom door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open gently.There she was.Hannah lay on her back, one arm curled around a softly breathing Meredith, her other hand resting on the swell of her stomach. Her face, even in sleep, was peaceful. And