Since hearing those words, Michael had unknowingly replaced affection with structure. He scheduled time instead of sharing it. He measured connection instead of feeling it. And without realizing it, he had delegated love.
He had once flown in a neurotherapist from New York who promised “significant breakthroughs.” He built a sensory room filled with lights, pads, and monitors. Every invoice came with hope—and every evening ended in disappointment.
The crunch of Michael’s dress shoes against the stone walkway broke the spell.
The laughter stopped instantly.
The boys stiffened. Their smiles disappeared. One step back. Then another.
They looked at him the way employees looked at a boss who had arrived unexpectedly.
Maria jumped out of the cart, startled.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Reynolds,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”
Something tightened painfully in Michael’s chest.
“Can I… help?” he asked quietly. “Push the cart?”
The boys didn’t answer.
They looked at Maria.
She smiled gently and nodded.
Michael placed his hands on the cart beside their small fingers. The wheels creaked as they moved forward together.
“Careful,” Maria said playfully. “There’s a sleeping dragon behind the oak tree.”