Just months earlier, his wife Margaret Cross had died in a sudden accident that tore his world apart. Since then, the mansion that once rang with laughter, music, and the clumsy footsteps of toddlers had turned into a mausoleum.
Silence lived there now.
His four six-year-old daughters—Ivy, Nora, Juliette, and Maeve—had stopped speaking.
They didn’t play.
They didn’t argue.
They didn’t even cry.
They sat together on the bedroom floor, knees drawn to their chests, staring at nothing, as if the world had frozen the day their mother vanished.
Nathaniel tried everything a desperate father with unlimited resources could try.
He brought in experts with flawless résumés and polished confidence. People who spoke of “reframing loss” and “age-appropriate processing.” Each arrived certain they would succeed.
Each one failed.
One removed every photo of Margaret from the walls, insisting the children needed to move forward. That night, the girls screamed themselves awake, clutching one another, sobbing for a face that no longer looked back at them.
Another filled the playroom with toys and bright colors. The girls never touched a single one.