That was why, when Jonathan Whitmore stepped out of his car at his countryside estate and heard that laugh at four in the afternoon, something inside him unraveled. His heart didn’t know whether to keep beating or stop.
He had come straight from the city in a flawless suit, his head full of figures, an expensive leather briefcase carrying the scent of airports and exhaustion. He hadn’t warned anyone. He just wanted to see his son before the day disappeared into meetings again. But as he crossed the garden, he froze.
Noah, his six-year-old, was clinging to the back of a woman, laughing freely. It wasn’t Victoria, his fiancée—the polished woman who spoke softly to doctors and friends. It wasn’t a therapist or a nurse.
It was Emily Parker, the housekeeper, dressed in a simple blue uniform, yellow gloves on her hands, grass stains on her knees. She crawled across the lawn, making horse noises without embarrassment, while Noah wrapped his arms around her neck, burying his face into her shoulder, alive with joy.
Jonathan’s legs nearly gave out.