Alexander peeled him away gently but firmly.
“Enough,” he said. “Rules are rules.”
Monica left the house quietly.
The door clicked behind her.
Logan sobbed long after.
That night, lying awake, Alexander replayed the moment. The tremble in her hands. The exhaustion in her face. The way she seemed out of breath.
Something didn’t fit.
The next morning, he couldn’t focus.
By noon, he’d canceled his meetings, gotten in his car, and driven to Monica’s address—the one he’d seen only on payroll forms.
At five a.m., she emerged.
Thin coat.
Old shoes.
No car.
No bus.
Just walking.
She walked for ten miles, limping the entire way.
It took nearly four before Alexander stopped pretending she’d overslept or gotten lazy.
Something was wrong.
Near the end of the route, she turned into a small brick home one door from her own building.
Alexander parked, approached quietly, and saw through the thin curtains.
Monica knelt beside an old iron bed.
On it lay an elderly woman—frail, pale, struggling to breathe.
Monica fed her gently, wiped her forehead, adjusted pillows with trembling hands.
“Mama,” she whispered. “I’m here. I’ll take care of you before work.”
Her mother coughed weakly.