Across the quiet sidewalk, in front of Mrs. Patterson’s brick townhouse, stood his daughter.
Sophie Whitmore.
Seven years old.
Thin shoulders swallowed by her navy school cardigan.
Chestnut hair tied in a loose braid that had begun to unravel.
She stood at the door with her hands held awkwardly in front of her, not demanding—just hopeful.
“Mrs. Patterson… do you maybe have something you’re not going to eat? Just a little?”
Jonathan felt the world tilt.
Mrs. Patterson, a gentle widow in her late sixties, opened the door wider.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Didn’t your stepmother make dinner?”
Sophie looked down at her shoes.
“She said I’ve already eaten enough this week,” she replied quietly. “But I’m still hungry.”
There was no drama in her voice. No tears.
Just fact.
Jonathan couldn’t breathe.
He remained hidden behind the hedge, his pulse pounding in his ears as Mrs. Patterson stepped aside.
“Come in, honey. I made chicken soup.”
Sophie hesitated. “I can’t stay long. She checks.”
She checks.
The words carved themselves into him.