She took a slow sip of coffee and continued, her voice sharp. “His wife died during childbirth. Her name was Evelyn. After that, everything changed. He blames the baby. He never says it, but everyone here knows.”
Sofia tightened her hold on the child, a protective instinct rising fast and fierce.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs. The man descended dressed in a tailored suit, composed and distant, nothing like the broken figure from the night before.
“Gloria, make my coffee to go,” he said flatly. Then his eyes landed on Sofia. “So you stayed.”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Good. Your pay will be doubled. But there is one condition. Do not speak to me about the child. Do your work. Nothing more.”
He left without waiting for a response.
Over the following days, Sofia built a routine around the baby, whom she quietly named Noah in her thoughts. He smiled more each day, responded to her voice, slept longer. At night, Sofia cried into her pillow, haunted by memories she could never erase.
Gloria watched closely, asking questions that felt too sharp to be casual. One afternoon, Sofia overheard her on the phone, speaking in a hushed voice about digging into Sofia’s past.