Aaron, the eldest of the three, carried a seriousness far beyond his years. He watched everything closely and tried to shield his siblings when he sensed danger. Naomi, gentle and imaginative, clung to small comforts and avoided confrontation. Elias, the youngest, spoke little but felt deeply, his emotions visible in the tight curl of his fingers and the way his shoulders tensed at sudden sounds.
They were his heart. His responsibility.
When Vanessa entered his life, she seemed like an answer to a question he had never dared to ask aloud. She was composed, charming, and effortlessly polished. People praised her warmth, her elegance, and her apparent devotion to his children. Friends told him he was lucky. Even the children had initially been polite, eager to please.
Yet something had always unsettled him.
It was not anything she said, but what she failed to do. Small absences of tenderness. Glances that lingered too long. A tone that shifted when she thought no one was listening.