In the center of his bed lay Naomi Brooks, the housekeeper. Curled around her, asleep for the first time in half a year, were his three sons.
Naomi opened her eyes slowly. Calm. No fear.
“Mr. Cole,” she said softly. “I can explain.”
He didn’t listen. His face hardened. “You’re fired. Leave. Now.”
Naomi didn’t argue. She eased herself out from between the boys without waking them. She brushed Leo’s hair back, tucked the blanket around Micah, whispered something to Oliver. Then she walked past Ethan, shoes in hand, head held high.
Downstairs, Mrs. Alvarez paused when she saw Naomi’s face—steady, but shattered.
“It’s alright,” Naomi said quietly. “Goodbye.”
The door closed behind her. Naomi Brooks stepped into the cold Chicago night alone.
Upstairs, Ethan stared at his sons. They were sleeping. Really sleeping. After twenty-two nannies, specialists, and therapists, the impossible had happened.
On the nightstand lay a folded note.
“They asked me not to leave them alone in the dark. Sometimes that’s all a child needs.”
Shame hit him hard. He hadn’t asked questions. He’d seen a Black woman in his bed with his white children, and his mind went exactly where it had been trained to go.