All Chapters of Lawfully Wedded Nanny (BWWM): Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

Florence Abbott was already seated in the living room when Richard returned from his shower, dressed for work but a towel was on his head. He'd taken another run. It was already past eight. Carter sat cross-legged on the rug, painstakingly organizing his action figures into what looked like a wrestling arena, while Meredith curled up beside her great-grandmother on the couch, deeply focused on a sparkly-covered book about unicorns. Florence looked up from her knitting, pale blue yarn looping softly through her fingers.“You missed breakfast,” she said. Her voice was even, warm, but her sharp eyes didn’t miss a thing. Richard ran the towel over his face and neck. “Wasn’t hungry.” She raised a brow. “So you thought you’d jog your appetite into submission?” “It’s a habit,” he replied. “Helps clear my head.” Florence hummed. “And did it work?” He didn’t answer. Not right away. Her silence stretched like a knowing smile. “Where’s the sitter?” he asked, pivoting. Florence

The room was dim and cold, the first grey light of dawn creeping through the small window.Monet sat curled on the narrow mattress, her back pressed to the wall, knees tucked tightly to her chest. The wool blanket she’d taken from the closet was wrapped around her shoulders, but it barely dulled the ache in her bones. Her phone was still off—a choice made in a wave of shame and panic the night before. She couldn’t bear the thought of speaking to anyone. Not Kyle. Not Mother Margaret. And definitely not Richard. The hospital visit had been quiet. Almost surgical. The doctor had spoken gently, but the words still sliced through her, “Your FSH levels are abnormally elevated. It suggests early ovarian failure.” They’d ordered more bloodwork. More probing. But the truth lingered like smoke.Infertility.Permanent.Irreversible. She was twenty-nine.Alone.And now, unbearably hollow. Her fingers clutched the silver cross at her neck not in praye

THIRTEEN YEARS AGO She wished someone had fought to keep her too. The thought curled in her chest like smoke hot and aching. She turned her face away from the window and crossed the hall, footsteps soft over worn floorboards. The nursery was dimly lit, a single lamp casting a pale orange halo against the far wall. She hadn’t planned to stop. Not really—but her steps slowed as she passed the crib where baby Louis slept. It was so quiet inside. The baby had stopped crying a while ago. Now he lay nestled in a pale blue blanket, his mouth slightly open, a soft wheezing breath rising and falling. His lashes were long and dark, fists curled near his chin like he was still holding onto something. Monet stared. That ache deepened. It hadn’t been mere coincidence that she’d been the one to see his mother fighting to leave him behind that cold December morning. She crouched slowly, hesitant—like one wrong move might wake him or, worse, reveal just how badl

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

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.