«If you come back,» he said slowly, «I’ll be there. I promise you. Whatever it takes.»
Maureen studied his face for a long moment, searching for something. Truth, maybe. Or sincerity.
Finally, she nodded. «One week. Give me one week to think about it.»
«Maureen…»
«One week, Mr. Scott. That’s all I’m asking. If you really mean what you’re saying, you can wait seven days.»
She handed him back the box. «Keep this. Show it to the girls. Tell them I saw it. Tell them…» Her voice caught. «Tell them I miss them too.»
Then she stepped back inside, and the door closed softly.
William stood there in the hallway, holding the box of drawings, feeling something he hadn’t felt in years. Hope. And terror.
William drove back to Westchester in silence. The box sat on the passenger seat. He kept glancing at it. Three drawings. Three declarations of love from children who had learned to speak again, then learned to go silent. Because of him.
When he pulled into the driveway, the house loomed in front of him. Twelve bedrooms. All that space. All that emptiness.
He sat in the car for a long time before going inside. Martha met him at the door. She didn’t ask how it went. She just looked at the box in his hands and nodded.
«They’re in the playroom,» she said quietly.
William climbed the stairs slowly. Each step felt heavier than the last. When he reached the playroom door, he stopped.
Through the crack, he could see them. Mary, Edith, and Michelle. They were sitting on the floor in a small circle, holding hands. They weren’t playing. They weren’t drawing. They were just sitting there. Staring at nothing. Like they had for eighteen months before Maureen came.
William pushed the door open gently.
All three girls looked up. Their faces didn’t change. No smiles. No fear. Just blankness.
«Hey, girls.» His voice came out softer than he intended.
They didn’t respond.
William stepped inside and sat down on the floor across from them. Not too close. He didn’t want to scare them.
«I, uh… I went to see Miss Maureen today.»
Mary’s eyes flickered. Just slightly.
William held up the box. «She wanted me to give this back to you. She saw your drawings. The ones you made for her.»
Michelle’s grip on her sister’s hands tightened.
«She wanted me to tell you something.» William’s throat felt tight. «She said she misses you too.»
Edith’s lip trembled. But she didn’t make a sound.
William set the box down between them. «I know I messed up. I know I scared you. And I know…» he paused, his voice breaking, «I know I haven’t been the father you needed. Not since your mom died.»
Silence. The girls just stared at him with those big green eyes. Catherine’s eyes.
«I was so scared after we lost her,» William continued, his voice barely above a whisper. «I didn’t know how to be here without her. I didn’t know how to help you. So I ran. I worked. I convinced myself that if I could just make enough money, buy enough things, hire enough people… maybe I could fix what was broken.»
Mary blinked. A single tear rolled down her cheek.
«But I can’t fix this with money. I know that now. And I’m so, so sorry.»
Michelle’s shoulders started shaking. She was crying silently, the way she had cried for eighteen months.
William’s own eyes burned. «I don’t know if Miss Maureen is coming back, but I do know this: I’m not leaving anymore. I’m staying here. With you. Because you are more important than any deal, any building, any amount of money in the world.»
He reached out slowly, his hand open, waiting.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, Mary let go of her sister’s hand. She crawled forward slowly, carefully, like she wasn’t sure if it was safe. And she took her father’s hand.
William’s chest cracked open. He pulled her close, and she buried her face in his shoulder, still silent, but holding on.
Then Edith came. Then Michelle. All three of them pressed against him, crying without sound, their small bodies shaking.
William wrapped his arms around them and held on, like he should have been doing all along.
«I’m here,» he whispered into their hair. «I’m here now. I promise.»
For the first time in eighteen months, William Scott stayed.
He didn’t check his phone. He didn’t think about work. He didn’t run. He just held his daughters and let himself feel everything he had been avoiding—the grief, the guilt, the desperate, aching love for these three little souls who deserved so much more than he had given them.
And in that moment, something shifted.
William kept his promise. He cancelled his trip to London. He pushed back meetings. He told his assistant to clear his schedule for the next two weeks.
For the first time in eighteen months, he was home.
He made breakfast, sitting with the girls while they ate. They picked at their food silently, but they didn’t leave the table. That felt like progress.
He read to them that night, sitting on the floor of their bedroom with a picture book about butterflies—Catherine’s favourite. The girls sat on their beds, watching him. Not smiling, not speaking, but listening.
When he finished, he kissed each of them goodnight. «I love you,» he whispered. «I love you so much.»
They didn’t say it back. But Mary squeezed his hand. Just once.
Three days passed like that. William stayed. He tried. He showed up for every meal, played with them in the backyard, sat with them during the quiet hours. But something was missing.
The girls were there physically. But they weren’t present. They moved through the house like shadows, silent and careful, like they were waiting for something—or someone.
On the fourth day, William found Michelle sitting by the laundry room door. She was holding something—a small piece of fabric, one of the magenta dresses she had been wearing the day he had exploded, the day Maureen left. Michelle pressed it to her face, her shoulders shaking.
William’s heart broke. He knelt beside her.
«Michelle, baby?»
She didn’t look at him, just kept holding that dress, crying without sound.
«Do you want Miss Maureen to come back?»
Michelle nodded.
William felt his chest tighten. «I’m trying, sweetheart. I’m trying to bring her back.»
Michelle finally looked up at him. Her green eyes were red and hollow, and William saw it plainly. She didn’t believe him.
That night, William couldn’t sleep. He stood in the hallway outside the girls’ room, listening. At first, there was nothing, just silence. Then he heard it. Whispers.
His heart stopped. He moved closer, pressing his ear to the door.
«Do you think she’s coming back?» Mary’s voice, so small.
«I don’t know.» Edith.
«Daddy said he’s trying.» Michelle.
Silence.
«But he said that before,» Mary whispered. «He said he’d be home more. He said lots of things.»
William’s hand gripped the doorframe, his knuckles turning white.
«Maybe she doesn’t want to come back,» Edith’s voice cracked. «Maybe we made her too sad.»
«We didn’t make her sad, Michelle,» Mary said. «Daddy did.»
The words hit like a physical punch to the stomach.
«I miss her,» Mary started crying softly. «I miss her so much.»
«Me too.»
«Me too.»
William stood there frozen, listening to his daughters cry for someone else—someone who had loved them better than he had, someone they trusted more. He slid down the wall and sat on the floor, his head in his hands.
They were talking, but not to him. They had learned to trust Maureen enough to open up, and he had destroyed it so completely that even now, even when he was here, trying, present… they still didn’t believe in him. And maybe they were right not to.
He pulled out his phone, staring at the screen. He could call anyone. He could fix any problem with a signature. But this? This couldn’t be bought. It couldn’t be negotiated. It couldn’t be controlled.
He had spent his whole life building empires, winning deals, being three steps ahead. But he had lost the only thing that mattered. Not because he didn’t have enough money. But because he didn’t have enough love, enough time, enough presence.
William sat there in that dark hallway, listening to his daughters cry for someone else. And finally, finally, he understood.
He couldn’t fix this alone. He needed Maureen. Not because she was convenient. Not because she was good at her job. But because his daughters needed her. And maybe, just maybe, he did too.