He stepped out of the car. The scent of wet soil hit him — earthy, raw. His four-year-old twin boys, Caleb and Connor, were shrieking with joy as they helped each other balance in the slippery puddle.
Their older sister, Madeline, hair plastered to her cheeks, laughed freely — dimples deep, eyes shining.
Eliza clapped her hands.
“Work together! If one falls, the other helps!”
Nathaniel noticed traffic cones and stacked garden pots forming some kind of obstacle course. The once-pristine yard looked like chaos.
With each step forward, he mentally calculated the damage: imported grass, stone tiles, image, order.
Control.
“Eliza,” he called, sharper than intended.
The laughter softened, but didn’t die.
Eliza turned calmly, mud streaked across her knees. She met his gaze without fear.
Nathaniel stopped at the edge of the puddle.
Between his polished Italian shoes and the muddy water lay an invisible boundary — the same boundary he had lived behind his entire life.
On the other side stood his children.
And her.
“What exactly is going on here?” he asked coldly.
Silence settled, broken only by dripping water.
Eliza rose slowly.
“They’re learning,” she said evenly.