I remembered, with a clarity that made me sick, how many decisions I had made after Sophia’s death because Eleanor had told me they were practical. That the boys needed calm. That staff needed strictness. That too much tenderness would make grief worse, not better.
“How long have you been noticing this with the twins?” I asked.
“From my second day.”
“Why not say something?”
She met my eyes. “Because you don’t listen, Mr. Langford. You inspect.”
The truth of it landed harder than any insult.
I had not interviewed Valerie. I had audited her. I had looked at her resume, checked her references, asked about infant CPR, formula temperatures, schedule compliance. I had not asked her what she noticed in my sons’ faces. I had not asked her what made them laugh. I had not asked her if they seemed frightened, because somewhere deep down I had come to prefer information that could be tabulated over truth that might require me to feel.
Theo let out a little hiccup against her shoulder. Leo, calmer now, gripped the collar of her uniform in his fist. I stared at the boys and then heard my own voice, hoarse and strange.
“Put them down.”
Valerie did, carefully, setting them on the rug between us.
I had spent my adult life in custom tailoring, conference rooms, and silent cars. Kneeling on the floor in a thousand-dollar suit felt absurd. I did it anyway.
Theo looked at me with wet suspicion. Leo watched me as if deciding whether I was weather or danger.
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