My millionaire father valued his suit more than us until we soaked him with the hose as revenge for his absence, and he shouted, “I’ll send you all away!” but ended up crying on his knees in the mud.

“No,” Rosa said, pointing at him, her voice trembling but strong. “You don’t work for them—you run away. Because if you stop, you’ll have to feel something. And every time you ignore them, you hurt them.”

Her words hit harder than anything else.

Because deep down, he knew they were true.

Three years earlier, his wife, Isabella, had died suddenly from a heart attack while he was away on a business trip in Chicago. That night, she had called him dozens of times. He saw the calls, silenced them, telling himself he would call back later.

He never got the chance.

That “later” never came—and the guilt had followed him ever since.

So he buried himself in work. Because work didn’t leave. Work didn’t die.

Back in the yard, water continued to spill across the grass, turning the ground to mud. Rosa bent down, picked up the hose, and—without hesitation—aimed it at Ethan.

“I’m going to do what they tried to do,” she said softly. “I’m going to make you stop.”

The water hit him square in the chest, forcing him back.

“Have you lost your mind?!” he shouted.

“Look at them!” Rosa cried. “They don’t want your money. They want you.”