He paused, afraid it would vanish if he moved. Afraid of seeing himself clearly: a father who needed cameras to know his own child.
He stepped into the kitchen.
The scene was unchanged. Ethan sat on the floor, legs stretched out, the empty wheelchair against the wall like a cruel reminder. Pots arranged in a half circle. Emily lay on her stomach, cheering him on.
“That’s it, champ! Loudest drummer ever!”
The floor creaked.
Emily turned, startled, scrambling to her feet. “Mr. Collins—I’m sorry. I finished cleaning. Ethan was crying, and I couldn’t leave him like that. I just played with him for a minute before making lunch.”
She began gathering the pots nervously. Ethan stopped and looked at Andrew, fear flickering across his face. That look hurt the most.
“Leave them,” Andrew said, sharper than he meant.
Emily froze. “Please, I need this job. I wasn’t wasting time—”
“I’m not worried about the house,” he said quietly. “I want to know why you were on the floor with my son.”
She blinked. “Because he’s on the floor. You don’t play with a child from above. You get down where they are. My grandmother taught me that.”
The simplicity of it struck him like a blow.