Christopher did not intend to listen, yet his feet remained still. He heard another voice through the speaker, older and strained, offering to sell belongings, to borrow money, to do anything. The woman answered with a sob and the sound of her hand brushing her swollen belly.
“I will be fine,” she lied gently. “I just needed to hear your voice.”
The call ended. Silence filled the kitchen. Christopher stepped forward, the wooden floor creaking beneath him. The woman turned, startled, wiping her cheeks quickly. Her name was Rosa Martinez, though he had never used it until this moment. She stood there in a worn uniform, pregnancy rounding her figure, embarrassment painting her face.
“I am sorry, Mr. Hale,” she said, her voice cracking. “I finished the kitchen. It was only a personal matter.”
Christopher swallowed, the sight of her distress pressing against something in him he had kept locked away for years.
“How much rent is left,” he asked quietly.
Rosa shook her head. “I did not ask you for help.”
“I am asking,” he replied, his voice calm but steady.