Andrew felt something inside his chest break.
“No,” Andrew said quickly.
His voice was softer than he expected.
“No, sweetheart… I’m not.”
The girl studied him for a moment, still unsure, then leaned closer into her mother.
Elena didn’t move.
She remained there, tense, protective, waiting.
Waiting to be judged.
To be turned away.
For the moment her fragile world might fall apart.
Andrew looked around once more.
The splintered boards.
The thin blanket hanging like a curtain.
The boy coughing softly behind her.
And suddenly, all his wealth felt… empty.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Andrew asked.
Elena swallowed.
“I didn’t want pity,” she said quietly. “And I couldn’t risk losing the job.”
“You wouldn’t have lost it.”
Her eyes flickered.
“With respect, sir… people say that. But reality is different.”
Andrew didn’t argue.
Because deep down… he knew she was right.
“What’s his name?” Andrew asked, nodding gently toward the boy.
“Elian,” she said. “He’s eight.”
“And her?”
“Rosie. She just turned five.”
Rosie peeked out again, her small fingers clutching her mother’s shirt.
Andrew slowly crouched, lowering himself to her level.
“Hi, Rosie.”
She hesitated… then gave a small nod.
Andrew shifted his gaze to Elian, who was trying to hold back another cough.
“That cough… how long has he had it?”
Elena’s expression tightened.
“A few weeks,” she admitted. “It gets worse at night.”
“Have you taken him to a doctor?”
Silence.
That was answer enough.
