Relief washes over me when I find them both fast asleep in Ari’s room, snuggled next to Tum Tum with the TV playing softly in the background. I switch it off and lean down to press gentle kisses on their foreheads.

“Sweet dreams, girls.” I whisper softly.

As I turn to leave, Ari stirs, her sleepy voice tugging at my heart. “Daddy never came home, did he, Ms. Kind?”

The question knots my stomach. I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. “He’ll be in to kiss you goodnight soon.” I answer, hoping it’s not a lie.

Back in the kitchen, I tidy up and put away the plates I’d prepared earlier, but my thoughts are heavy with concern for the girls and the promises I hope their dad can keep.

Just as I’m reaching for the last plate, I hear the door open and sharp voices pierce the quiet, the clash of raised tempers echoing through the house.

“No, Mom! I don’t care what Hudson did for the company before. He isn’t the CEO. I am! This game he’s playing needs to end now!” Vic’s voice thunders through the hallway, sharp and unyielding.

Curious yet cautious, I slip behind the kitchen doorway, peeking out from the shadows. There, in the dimly lit hall, he stands face-to-face with his mother, their silhouettes tense in heated debate.

“Son, try to see it from Hudson’s perspective,” Ms. Vicky calmly pleads, a striking contrast to her son’s clear frustration. “He managed the business with your father for years while you focused on the restaurants. He knows the company inside and out. It’s as much his business as it is yours.”

“But it isn’t!” His chest heaves with every breath, his voice cracking under the strain, and fists clenched at his sides. “Dad left the company to me, and the least I could do—to make up for what I did—”

“No!” Ms. Vicky cuts him off, her voice sharper now. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You couldn’t control what happened. What you can do is make your father proud. Fix things with your brother, or else the legacy he built for his sons and your daughters will crumble.”

I watch as his shoulders, previously rigid with defiance, begin to slump. Their issues stem far beyond this conversation, so it’s impossible for me to fully grasp the moment, but it’s clear Vic is conflicted.

Attempting to sneak away unnoticed, I misstep, my toe colliding painfully with a kitchen stool. “Oh, shit! Ow, ow, ow,” I hiss, trying to muffle my pain.

Silence falls like a heavy curtain.

“Ms. Kind? Are you there?” Vic’s voice cuts through the stillness, sharp and alert.

Frozen, I consider staying hidden, praying the shadows will conceal my intrusion. But the echo of his footsteps grows louder, closer.

Might as well face the music.