Grace rolled forward, caught it skillfully with her foot, and placed it back in front of him. “Next time, you’ll do it yourself.”
The room went still. For the first time, Noah flushed with embarrassment.
Victor watched, stunned. No yelling. No pleading. Just calm authority.
“If you want to try,” he said finally, “the job is yours.”
The children protested quietly. Grace simply smiled. “We’ll see.”
From that day on, the games began—and failed. In the garden, a rope stretched across the path was ignored before it could trap her. At night, when they blocked her door and flooded the floor, she sealed it calmly and called out, “Is that all?” When they cut the lights and mocked her from outside, she replied, unshaken, “I’ve lived in darkness before.”
Each time, their confidence cracked.
In the kitchen, they sabotaged lunch—too much salt, missing utensils, broken eggs. Grace turned every mess into a lesson. “Life isn’t always sweet.” “Patience matters.” “There’s always another way.” By the end, they ate together in silence that felt strangely peaceful.