That night over dinner, everything felt
Clara served homemade soup and cornbread, the kind of meal Grace used to make. For the first time in years, Michael and Lily ate together at the same table.
Clara didn’t talk much, but her presence changed the rhythm of the house. She hummed while she cooked, left fresh flowers on the table, folded Lily’s clothes with lavender sachets tucked inside. Slowly, laughter began returning to the mansion’s empty halls.
A month passed. Lily stopped yelling. Michael started coming home earlier. Sometimes he’d find them reading together in the living room — Lily resting her head on Clara’s shoulder as she read aloud.
But not everyone approved.
When Michael’s sister, Evelyn, visited one weekend, she pulled him aside and whispered sharply, “You’re getting too close to that woman. She’s just a maid, Mike. Don’t forget her place.”
Michael stared at her. “She’s the first person who’s helped my daughter smile again. That’s her place.”
Evelyn frowned. “You’re making a mistake.”
