A sound he hadn’t heard in years.
Laughter.
Not polite giggles. Not forced smiles.
Real, unfiltered laughter.
Michael slowed his steps.
On the lawn, near the old oak tree he’d once considered cutting down, stood a strange scene.
Maria, the housekeeper who cleaned the upstairs bathrooms and folded laundry with quiet efficiency, sat inside an old wooden cart—something Michael vaguely remembered being left behind by a previous owner. She clutched a plain white folder to her chest as if it were priceless.
In front of her, Evan, Lucas, and Noah pushed the cart carefully across the grass, laughing, arguing, negotiating.
“Slow down! You’ll drop the king’s documents!”
“No, I’m protecting them!”
“I’m stronger—I should steer!”
Michael froze.
He couldn’t remember the last time his sons had spoken so freely. Or laughed at all.
How was it possible that the woman who worked silently in the background of his home had achieved in minutes what months of therapy could not?
The diagnosis echoed in his mind.
Difficulty forming emotional bonds.