“Goodbye, Eleanor.”
He hung up. It was hard to breathe. David opened the window, letting in the cold night air. Three years ago, he had buried his wife. And along with her, he had buried himself. He hid in his work. In his money. In control. He built walls around his son to protect him.
But what was he protecting him from? From pain. From risk. From life. Vera was right. He was a scared father. And that fear was killing Michael, more slowly, but just as surely as the illness had killed Kate. David went back to Michael’s room. The boy was asleep, curled up in a ball, hugging the muddy bird.
A smile was on his face. His father sat on the edge of the bed and gently stroked his son’s hair.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”
Michael didn’t hear him. But perhaps he felt it, because his smile widened. David left the room, picked up his phone, and texted Vera: “Thank you. For today. For everything.”
The reply came a minute later: “This is just the beginning.”
He looked at those words and knew: yes, it was just the beginning. The beginning of a real life. But he didn’t yet know what price he would have to pay for that life. Eleanor Vance arrived on Monday morning. A tall, stately woman of sixty-three.
She wore a severe gray suit and a hairstyle that hadn’t changed in twenty years. A retired hospital administrator from Boston. She was used to giving orders and seeing them followed. David met her in the living room. Vera was in the kitchen with Michael. They were making breakfast.
“Eleanor.” He didn’t hug her, just gave a curt nod.
“David.”
She surveyed the apartment with a critical eye.
“I see you haven’t redecorated. Kate wanted to change the color of the living room walls, remember?”
The first jab. Soft and precise. A reminder that he hadn’t fulfilled his late wife’s wishes.
“I haven’t had time for redecorating,” David replied.
“You’ve had time for work. For another restaurant. But for your son?”
The second jab. Harder. David clenched his jaw.
“Why are you here? To see your grandson, or am I not allowed that either?”
She walked into the kitchen without waiting for an answer. David followed.
Michael and Vera were sitting at the table. In front of them was a pile of pancakes they had made together. The boy was signing something. Vera was laughing. A normal morning. A happy morning. Eleanor stopped at the threshold.
“Michael.”
Her voice was quiet but commanding.
Michael flinched. He turned. He saw his grandmother. And his face instantly tensed. He stood up, straightening his back. An old reflex. Vera stood up too, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Good morning. I’m Vera, Michael’s nanny.”
Eleanor looked her up and down. Her gaze lingered on the simple clothes, the flour smudges on her sleeves, the slightly messy hair.
“I see.”
That was all she said. She turned to Michael. She crouched down. The movement was calculated. Almost clinical.
“How are you, Michael? Are you keeping up with your studies?”
Michael nodded. He signed timidly:
“Yes, Grandma.”
“Show me your lesson planner.”
The boy looked at Vera. She gave him a gentle nod. Michael ran to his room. Eleanor stood up and turned to Vera.
“What is your degree in?”
“Education. Specializing in deaf studies.”
“Which university?”
“Indiana University.”
A faint smirk touched Eleanor’s lips.
“I see. And your experience with children with multiple developmental disorders?”
Vera frowned.
“Michael doesn’t have multiple disorders. He only has a hearing impairment. He has a speech delay, socialization issues, and emotional immaturity. Or have you not noticed?”
“I’ve noticed a child who was kept in a cage for far too long,” Vera replied calmly. “And I’m helping him get out.”
The air in the kitchen grew thick. David stepped forward.
“Eleanor, I don’t think this is an appropriate conversation.”
“It’s perfectly appropriate.” She turned to him. “I see the results of your parenting, David. The boy has been neglected.”
“Instead of systematic lessons, he’s playing in the mud. Instead of qualified specialists, he has a girl from the Midwest. If Kate could see…”
“Don’t you dare…” David’s voice became dangerously quiet.
“Don’t you dare speak for Kate. I am her mother. I know what she would have wanted for her son. She wanted him to be happy. She wanted him to be healthy, educated, and prepared for life. And you are turning him into a wild animal.”
Michael returned with a notebook in his hands. He froze in the doorway, watching the adults argue. His eyes widened with fear. Vera saw him first. She knelt beside him. She put an arm around his shoulders. She signed: “It’s okay. Don’t be scared.” Eleanor took the notebook from the boy’s hands and flipped through it. There were few entries.
Vera focused on live interaction and learning through play, not on written exercises.
“Is this it?” She raised her eyebrows. “For three weeks of work?”
“We focus on quality, not quantity,” Vera replied.
“The quality of mud on his clothes? The quality of his childhood?”
Eleanor snapped the notebook shut.
“I see how it is. David, we need to talk. Alone.”
David looked at Vera. She nodded.
“I’ll take Michael for a walk.”
“Stay,” Eleanor commanded. “This concerns you too.”
A silence fell. Vera didn’t move. David looked at his mother-in-law and, for the first time in three years, understood: a real war was about to begin.
They sat in the living room. Eleanor in an armchair, straight as a rod. David opposite her, with Vera beside him. Michael was playing in his room, but the door was slightly open.
“I’ve consulted with several specialists,” Eleanor began. “I showed them the video from your building’s resident chat. The one of Michael rolling in the mud.”
David flinched.
“You were spying on us?”
“Nina sent me the video. She’s worried about the child, unlike you.”
“What specialists?” Vera asked sharply.
“Child psychologists, developmental specialists, pediatricians. People with reputations, with experience, not some upstarts from a state school.”
Vera paled but said nothing.
“And what did they say?” David asked.
Eleanor pulled a folder from her bag and placed it on the table.
“Their conclusion is unanimous. The parenting methods currently being used are not appropriate for the needs of a child with developmental challenges. An immediate correction of approach is required, along with a change in personnel and, possibly, a change of guardian.”
The last words hung in the air like a death sentence. David picked up the folder. He opened it. Inside were printed reports. Signatures, letterheads, medical terminology. It all looked official and convincing.
“You want to take my son from me?”
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