The Stephens estate was a three-story villa with a private garden. Cold. Quiet. Empty.
That night, after bathing Melody and tucking her in, I tried to ease her to sleep.
She clung to my fingers and wouldn't let go.
"Mommy, you smell a little bitter today." She scrunched her nose.
"I took some medicine." I patted her back gently.
"Are you sick, Mommy? Melody will blow it better."
She leaned in and puffed soft little breaths against my cheek.
Tears hit the comforter before I even knew they were coming.
Twenty years. Not once in twenty years had anyone asked if I was sick. Not once had anyone offered to blow the pain away.
"It doesn't hurt anymore." I buried my face in the curve of her neck.
Melody fell asleep quickly.
Even in her dreams, she held tight to the hem of my shirt, murmuring in that soft, cottony voice: "Mommy..."
In that moment, guilt pressed down on me so hard I could barely breathe.
I was someone whose own parents couldn't stand the sight of — covered in scars, riddled with sickness. What right did I have to steal love this pure?
I'd taken another woman's nest. Slipped into her place like a thief, claiming the warmth and tenderness that had belonged to her alone.