“Elena,” he interrupted gently. “Please. Sit.”
She hesitated, glancing around as if the entire park were a workplace where any mistake could cost her everything.
Ethan tugged lightly at her sleeve. “Sit,” he insisted sweetly.
She sat.
Richard took the other end of the bench, leaving space between them.
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he said carefully. “But if you want to talk… I’m here.”
Silence stretched.
Then it broke.
“My son is sick,” Elena blurted out suddenly, like the words hurt to release.
Richard stiffened.
She had worked in their Manhattan townhouse for almost three years. She arrived before dawn. Coffee ready. Floors spotless. Laundry folded with quiet precision.
Invisible.
He had never once asked about her life outside his walls.
“He’s five,” she continued. “His name is Mateo. He’s had a fever for three days. I can’t take him to the doctor because I start at six every morning. And if I miss work…” Her voice cracked. “There’s a waiting list of women who want this job. I can’t lose it.”
Ethan placed his small hand on her knee.
“When I’m sick, Daddy sends a doctor to the house,” he said simply.
The words hit Richard like a punch.