I froze beside the bed, certain my exhausted mind had imagined it.
I had spent three hours pacing the maid’s quarters of that enormous Bellevue Crest estate with Theodore. He was nine months old, feverish from teething, and nothing could stop his crying. I held him, sang lullabies, and offered warm milk, but his whimpers only grew louder.
Desperate for a change of scene, I entered Raymond Winslow’s quiet bedroom.
The doctors said he had only days left.
At forty-six, Raymond had built a fortune through regional transport fleets, but for nearly two months he had been bedridden, unable to speak or move. His arrogant nephew Christopher was already discussing funeral arrangements as casually as if he were booking a restaurant.
I worked there as a live-in caregiver because I desperately needed steady income and because it was the only job that allowed Theodore to stay with me.
That night, I sat beside Raymond to rest my aching arms. Theodore kept crying, so without thinking much about it, I gently placed him on the sick man’s chest for a few seconds.
The baby fell asleep almost immediately.
