Later that afternoon, in the kitchen, Marian met Mrs. Parker, the cook—a woman in her sixties, quick with her hands, serious-faced, eyes that looked like they had witnessed too many goodbyes.
“Why do you even bother dressing nicely?” Mrs. Parker muttered, chopping onions without looking up.
“The kids won’t notice. And Mr. Navarro won’t either.”
Marian gave a small laugh—not because it was funny, but because she needed to stay calm.
“Maybe not today,” she said softly. “But maybe someday.”
The knife hit the cutting board again. Sharp. Precise.
“Since Mrs. Laura passed, those kids barely eat,” Mrs. Parker said.
“Five nannies before you. All of them quit.”
Marian swallowed.
She looked at the carefully arranged ingredients on the counter—order used to keep pain at bay. In her mind, a simple image formed: an apple, sliced carefully, arranged into something beautiful.
Not forced food.
Just something that might invite curiosity.
That night, the dining room felt even larger.
Mrs. Parker served rice, roasted chicken, and warm soup. The smell was comforting—but the twins didn’t look at it.
Richard sat at the head of the table, scrolling through his phone. After ten minutes, he stood.