The room was silent. Maya's question hung in the air, waiting. Nerissa's mind raced. She looked at her daughter's confused face, then at Vance's rigid posture, then at Sam's back at the sink. She needed an answer—not the truth, not yet, but something that would satisfy a five-year-old's curiosity without forcing a confession no one was ready for. She looked at Vance. His grey eyes met hers. She saw the fear there, the hope, the desperate need to be accepted. This is your chance, she thought. Do not waste it. Then she had an idea. She turned back to Maya and smiled. "Because Mr. Vance said your drawing is beautiful," she said. "And he wants to learn how to draw with you. Isn't that right, Vance?" Vance straightened his posture. His hands came out of his pockets. He walked toward them, each step careful, measured. He knelt in front of Maya, bringing himsel
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