Her eyes didn’t drop. “You wouldn’t have believed it. You’ve always trusted the diagnoses more than the possibilities.”
The words stung because they were true.
“I want proof,” I said sharply.
Ethan flinched at my tone.
Sarah led me into the adjoining playroom. On a small table sat a makeshift workshop—child-safe carving tools, blocks of wood, shavings on the floor.
And a notebook.
I opened it.
Page after page of drawings. Rough shapes. Birds. Animals. Flowers.
Beneath each one were small notes in Sarah’s handwriting.
“Today Ethan carved a bird. He smiled.”
“He made this when he was frustrated.”
“He pointed to this and looked at me when I said ‘Dad.’”
My hands trembled.
This wasn’t random scribbling.
It was language.
Then something slipped from between the pages.
A photograph.
Sarah, years younger.
Standing beside my father.
My stomach tightened.
“What is this?” I asked.
Sarah’s face softened with sadness.
“Your father, Mr. William Collins, taught me to carve. He’s the one who brought me here.”
The room tilted.
“My father hired you.”
“Yes. But not just as a caregiver.”
She took a breath.
“He asked me to be Ethan’s secret teacher.”
I stared at her.