Ethan, eight years old, thin and pale, broke into a coughing fit as he hugged her. Lily, five, barefoot and dirty, wrapped her arms around her mother’s legs like she was afraid Maria might disappear. They clung to her as if holding the world together with their small hands.
Andrew’s chest tightened painfully.
This was where she lived. The woman who cleaned marble floors and polished crystal chandeliers went home to this.
He stepped back without meaning to—and crushed an empty can beneath his shoe.
The sound echoed.
Maria spun around instantly, fear flashing across her face. She stepped in front of her children, arms spread wide, her body trembling but determined.
“Please,” she whispered, voice shaking. “Please don’t fire me. I can explain everything.”
Lily peeked out from behind her mother’s leg, eyes wide and innocent.
“Mom… is he bad?”
That question hit Andrew harder than any insult ever had.
He didn’t leave.