Emily Carter’s suitcase hit the floor with a dull thump, as if it had finally given up along with her. The sound echoed through the long stone hallway of the estate, blending with the words still burning in her chest.
“We no longer need your services,” Richard Collins had said, not even lifting his eyes from the papers on his desk.
Three years. Three birthday parties with balloons. Three winters of fevers and cough syrup. Three stormy nights when Lily fell asleep gripping Emily’s hand as if letting go meant disappearing.
And now Emily stood there with a half-packed suitcase, her heart twisted tight, her dignity barely holding together.
She didn’t cry in his office. She cried later, in the staff bathroom, silently, her hand pressed to her mouth. She packed only what mattered: clothes, a children’s book full of notes, an old photo of her mother. She left behind Lily’s doll brush by accident—or maybe on purpose. “That belongs to her,” she thought. “I don’t anymore.”
In the courtyard, the California sunset painted the walls in muted gold. George, the driver, opened the car door and looked at her with quiet sympathy.
“It isn’t right, Miss Emily,” he murmured.