I drove them home myself.
During the ride, she kept promising she wouldn’t be a burden—that she could clean, do laundry, leave whenever I wanted.
“You’re not working for me,” I told her. “You’re just staying.”
When I opened the guest house door, she stood there holding her baby—Eli—and simply stared.
It wasn’t luxurious, but it was warm and comfortable. A bedroom, a small kitchen, a sitting area. Clean sheets, fresh towels. It had been unused for months, though, so extra blankets and stored items had been boxed up and placed in the attic.
That detail would matter later.
“I’ll bring you clothes,” I said. “And diapers. Formula too?”
She hesitated. “I’m breastfeeding… but not always enough.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Start by getting some sleep,” I said.
That night, I looked out my window and saw a light glowing in the guest house.
For the first time in years, the property didn’t feel completely empty.
The next morning, I prepared breakfast—tea, toast, eggs, fruit—and added baby food and a soft blue blanket.
I should have knocked.
Instead, I opened the door and called out, “Judith, I brought—”
The tray slipped from my hands.
Plates shattered. Tea spilled across the floor.
“Judith?” I said, my voice unsteady.
