“Helen,” he said. “My wife.”
“She would’ve liked us?” Lily asked.
“She would’ve loved you more than anything.”
Bea, silent since her mother’s death, accepted his daily strawberry yogurt offerings. One afternoon she sat near his chair, eating, then held the cup toward him, sharing. Their first true bridge.
Then Ryan came.
His nephew appeared in the garden, suit sharp, eyes cold.
“So it’s true,” Ryan said. “You started a private orphanage, Uncle. How generous.”
“They’re my guests,” Ethan answered.
“You’re dying,” Ryan shot back. “And you’re handing the Hayes name to four street kids? I won’t allow it. The law’s on my side. A man in your condition can’t adopt anybody. I’ll have you declared incompetent.”
From then on, their enemy wasn’t just disease—it was Ryan, sharpening the law into a weapon.
The girls sensed danger. One night, they stood in front of Ethan in the library.
“Uncle Ethan,” Sophie asked quietly, “are you going to die?”
No one had asked him so directly.
“Yes,” he said. “My body’s like an old car. Some parts can’t be fixed. One day my lungs will stop. When that happens, I’ll go on a long trip to a place without pain—the same place your mom went.”