Not crying. Not wearing the hollow expression Andrew had grown used to. Ethan was smiling—really smiling, eyes bright, mouth open with joy. He held two wooden spoons, banging them against overturned pots in wild rhythm. And lying on the floor in front of him, blue uniform wrinkled, yellow gloves still on, was Emily, the cleaning woman—right there at his level.
She clapped and laughed, speaking to Ethan as if he were the center of the universe, not a child confined to a wheelchair everyone treated with caution and pity.
Andrew squeezed the phone until his fingers hurt. The meeting disappeared. The screens vanished. Only that kitchen remained—his son’s laughter, and a stranger doing what no trained caregiver had managed in six months.
“Mr. Collins, we need your approval—” someone said.
Andrew stood abruptly. Chairs scraped. Faces turned.
“I have to leave,” he said, already grabbing his jacket.
The drive through Chicago blurred past him—horns, traffic, flashing lights. All he heard was Ethan’s laughter, a sound he hadn’t heard since before the accident, back when Laura filled the house with music and warmth.
When he entered through the side door, the laughter was still there. Real. Alive.