Helen apologized. The children stared at their plates.
That night, Helen sat alone and whispered to her son’s photo, “Those poor babies.”
She knew then she wouldn’t last long—but she couldn’t leave them like this.
Over the next weeks, Helen followed William’s rules… but gently bent them. She baked muffins instead of oatmeal. Opened the curtains for sunlight. Spoke softly about her son while dusting, never directly to the children—just near them.
“My Daniel loved blue,” she murmured once. “Said it was the color before the stars come out.”
The children listened.
In her apartment, Helen kept Daniel’s old acoustic guitar. She hadn’t touched it in years. One night, trembling, she tuned it.
The next afternoon, while William was away on business, Helen brought the guitar into the playroom.
The children stared.
She strummed once. The sound filled the room.
They flinched—but didn’t run.
She played softly. Simple songs. Familiar melodies.
When William called to check in, Helen said only, “We’re in the playroom.”
That evening, the children were restless. Afraid.
The next morning, knowing William was returning early, Helen went to the west wing. In the piano bench, she found handwritten sheet music.