The boys turned, startled. One began to tremble. The other ran to cling to Emma.
“Who are they?” Ethan asked, his voice rough. “What are these children doing in my house?”
Emma swallowed hard, holding the child protectively.
“Sir… please… don’t call the police. I can explain.”
Ethan stepped closer. Under the light, he noticed their clothes—small shirts made from his own discarded designer shirts.
“You dressed them in my old clothes…” he murmured. “Now tell me—where did they come from?”
The braver boy stepped forward, eyes shining.
“Don’t yell at Mama Emma,” he said firmly. “She protects us.”
Ethan froze—not just at the words, but at the boy’s voice. The rhythm, the slight lisp…
It was Isabella’s.
“Mama Emma?” he asked slowly. “Are they yours?”
Emma shook her head, tears falling.
“No… I found them.”
“You found them?” Ethan’s voice rose. “That doesn’t make sense!”
“It means someone left them to die,” she said quietly. “And I couldn’t let that happen.”
“Explain. Now.”
Emma gathered the boys close.