Chicago met September with a cold rain that drummed against the panoramic windows of the Lincoln Park condo. David Solomon stood in his twelfth-floor office, looking out at a city swallowed by gray fog. Forty-two years old, an impeccable suit from a Milanese designer, a touch of silver at his temples that only added to his gravitas.
Owner of six high-end steakhouses in the heart of the city. A man whose name opened doors and closed deals. A man who had buried his wife three years ago and hadn’t known how to talk to his own son since. His phone vibrated. The placement agency. David answered without looking away from the window.
“Solomon.”
“Mr. Solomon, good afternoon. This is Irene from Elite Care. We have a candidate for your consideration. Vera Vance, twenty-eight years old, degree in education with a specialization in deaf studies. Five years of experience working with children with hearing impairments. Her references are…”
“Send her over today,” David cut in. “Six o’clock.”
He hung up and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The seventh nanny in two years. The last one, a Mrs. Albright, had lasted only three months. A woman with two master’s degrees and a flawless résumé, she had left saying, “I’m sorry, Mr. Solomon, but it’s impossible to breathe in this house. It’s too…”
“Orderly.” David hadn’t understood what she meant then. He didn’t want to understand now. He left his office and walked down the long hallway. White walls, gray marble floors, recessed lighting. Not a single photograph, not one splash of color.
The 2,500-square-foot condo looked like a suite at a five-star hotel. Beautiful, expensive, and completely lifeless. The door to the child’s room was ajar. David paused at the threshold. Michael was sitting at his desk. Back straight, hands folded neatly in front of a workbook.
Seven years old, dark hair, gray eyes—the spitting image of his mother. The boy was bent over his handwriting exercises, tracing letters with mechanical precision. Beside him lay a sign language textbook, open to the alphabet page. David stood there, watching his son, and felt that familiar weight in his chest.
The same weight that settled in every time he tried to say something to Michael and remembered: the boy couldn’t hear him. Had never heard him. Born profoundly deaf. And no amount of money, no team of specialists, could change that. Michael sensed his presence and turned around. His expression instantly became guarded.
He stood up, straightened his shoulders, and clasped his hands behind his back. A gesture of submission no one had taught him, but one he had learned on his own. David forced a smile and signed, clumsily, with mistakes: “Keep studying.” Michael nodded and returned to his workbook. His father closed the door and leaned against the wall.
When had it happened? When had his son turned into a little soldier, afraid to make a mistake, afraid to move, afraid to live? Probably three years ago. The night Kate didn’t come home from the hospital.
Vera Vance got off the ‘L’ at Fullerton and looked around. Chicago greeted her with a gray sky and wet pavement. She adjusted the strap of her bag—an old canvas one her mother had sewn for her back in college—and checked the address on her phone. The luxury high-rise on Lakeview Avenue loomed before her like a fortress of glass and concrete.
A doorman in a booth, a security gate, cameras everywhere. Vera instinctively smoothed down her coat—the only decent one she owned, bought with her last paycheck in Bloomington. She didn’t look like she belonged here, and she didn’t feel like it. But a job was a job.
And working with children was the only thing she knew how to do really, truly well.
“Can I help you, miss?” the doorman called out.
“I’m here to see the Solomons. They’re expecting me. Vera Vance.”
The doorman checked his list, nodded, and buzzed her in. Vera walked through a lobby with marble floors, mirrored walls, and a massive crystal chandelier. The elevator whisked her to the twelfth floor, silent and swift. The door was opened by David Solomon himself. Vera had expected to see a successful businessman. She wasn’t wrong.
Tall, fit, with sharp features and a cold gaze. But she hadn’t expected to see the exhaustion in his eyes. So profound, it seemed the man hadn’t slept in years.
“Good evening. Please, come in.”
She took off her shoes in the foyer, which was as large as her entire studio apartment back in Indiana. She followed David into the living room. White walls, gray sofas, a glass coffee table. Not a single personal touch, nothing alive.
“Have a seat,” David gestured to the sofa. “Irene sent over your résumé. Five years of experience with deaf children. You worked at a specialized preschool in Bloomington. Then privately with two families. Why did you leave the preschool?”
Vera hesitated for a second.
“It lost its funding. Budget cuts.”
It was the truth. But not the whole truth. The real reason: she couldn’t stand watching parents hide their children, ashamed of their differences. Trying to “fix” what didn’t need fixing. But she kept that to herself.
David nodded.
“My son has a very strict schedule. Up at seven, lessons from eight to twelve, lunch, a walk in the park for exactly one hour, educational games, dinner at six, lights out at eight. No deviations. It’s important for structuring his perception of the world.”
Vera listened, feeling a knot form in her stomach. She’d heard this before. Parents who turned a child’s life into a timetable because it was easier, safer, less frightening.
“May I see Michael?” she asked quietly…
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