“Where is she,” I asked, my voice rough.
“She left. She said she sent you a message.”
I nodded slowly. “So you decided to bake.”
Her spine straightened. She met my gaze with a quiet firmness. “I decided not to leave three frightened children alone.”
Silence settled between us. I looked at my children. Truly looked at them. No tears. No tension.
“How long were they crying,” I asked quietly.
“I am not sure. Tomaso was sick from panic. It took about twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes. Professionals had failed for months.
I knelt beside Bianca. “Are you okay.”
She nodded enthusiastically. “Clara says dragons like cookies.”
I exhaled and sat down on one of the stools, jacket abandoned.
“I am not firing you,” I said. Relief flickered across her face. “I want to understand how you did this.”
She hesitated. “I wanted them to feel safe, not silent.”
The words struck deep. “Do you have children,” I asked.
Her expression changed. Pain surfaced briefly before she smoothed it away.
“I had a daughter. Sofia. She di/ed three years ago. Illness.”
My chest tightened. She spoke quietly, telling me about foster homes, about promising herself she would never abandon her child, about losing everything anyway.