“Daddy…” she whispered—her voice soft but clear. The first time he’d heard her speak in eighteen months. “Lucy said you’re not mad at us. She said you work so much because you’re sad about Mommy. We wanted to bake you a vanilla cake, like she used to.”
Olivia hugged her sister. “We can talk again, Daddy. Lucy helped us not be scared of words anymore. Please don’t go away. We miss you.”
Chloe held up a crayon drawing: a man in a suit holding hands with three girls under a bright yellow sun.
“Happy birthday, Daddy. We love you. Don’t cry anymore.”
The video ended.
The glass slipped from Alexander’s hand and shattered on the floor.
A broken, animal sob tore from his chest. He buried his face in his hands as eighteen months of grief exploded all at once.
“Oh God… what have I done?” he choked. “I broke them. I broke my own daughters.”
Mrs. Carmichael’s voice trembled—but didn’t soften.
“Lucy spent six weeks sitting on the floor with them. Wiping tears you never saw. Singing them through nightmares. Teaching them to speak again—by telling them their father loved them.”
At dawn, Alexander drove across the city.