Chapter 4
“How long?” he asked.
Sophia clasped her hands.
“About six months, sir.”
“Six months.”
“Yes.”
“And you did not think to tell me?”
Her face tightened.
“I didn’t think you would approve.”
“Why?”
“Because I am not a doctor.”
“No,” he said. “You are not.”
She took the rebuke quietly.
“I never did anything unsafe. I only used exercises I learned from my brother’s therapists. Simple things. Stretching. Balance. Encouragement. I always stopped when Ethan hurt. I never forced him. I used my lunch break or time before classes. I finished my duties first.”
Alexander stared at her.
“You are not paid extra for this.”
“No, sir.”
“Then why?”
Sophia looked toward the staircase.
Her voice softened.
“Because he was sad.”
The answer was too simple.
Too damning.
She continued, “Because he watched other children run in videos and pretended not to care. Because he cried after therapy when everyone left. Because he asked me once if his legs were bad because he had been bad. And because no child should have to ask that question alone.”
Alexander turned away.
The words pierced through every defense he had built.
“How do you know these exercises?” he asked, because it was easier than responding to the wound.
“My younger brother, Carlos, was born with weak legs. I grew up taking him to therapy with my mother. We didn’t have money for private care, so I learned everything I could. I practiced with him at home. I made games. I counted steps. I celebrated when he moved one inch farther than the day before.”
She smiled faintly, and pride lit her tired face.
“He is sixteen now. Still has limitations, but he walks. He goes to school. He helps my mother at the shop. He says I was his first coach.”
“And you wanted to be Ethan’s coach.”
“No, sir,” Sophia said quietly. “I wanted to be his friend. The coaching came after.”
Alexander closed his eyes.
Friend.
When was the last time he had been that for his son?
Not provider.
Not decision-maker.
Not distant, grieving father funding the machinery of care.
Friend.
“Why are you working as a housekeeper?” he asked.
Sophia looked startled.
“Sir?”
“You clearly have knowledge. You are good with children. Why not study? Physical therapy. Child development. Something formal.”
A bitter little smile touched her mouth.
“With what money, Mr. Hayes?”
He said nothing.
“I leave my apartment before six. Two buses to get here. I work all day. Two buses back. I help Carlos with homework, cook dinner, help my mother before her night shift if I can. On weekends, I clean other homes for extra money. A degree is a beautiful idea, but beautiful ideas still send bills.”
Alexander absorbed each word.
He had signed checks that morning larger than Sophia’s yearly income without reading the final line.
He had never wondered how she arrived.
Never wondered what she carried.
Never wondered who waited for her after she left his house.
His son knew her heart better than he did.
The thought shamed him.
A soft tapping sounded from the stairs.
Both turned.
Ethan stood there, peeking from behind the railing.
“Dad?”
“You should be in your room.”
“I know.”
He moved down one step, then another, his crutches clattering softly.
“You’re not going to send Tia Sophia away, are you?”
Alexander froze.
The fear in his son’s voice was not small.
It was the kind of fear that forms when children have already lost one person and believe others can vanish too.
“Why would you think that?” Alexander asked.
Ethan looked at the floor.
“Because you looked serious. And when grown-ups look serious, people leave.”
Sophia’s eyes filled.
Alexander walked to the stairs and lowered himself until he was level with his son.
“Do you like Sophia?”
Ethan nodded fiercely.
“She’s my best friend.”
Alexander’s throat tightened.
“Your best friend?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
May you like
The boy thought about it.
“Because she listens. She doesn’t rush me. She lets me try even if I might fall. She believes me when I say I can do something.”
