Chapter 3 - Shadows of the Seven-Year Absence
Nathan arranged for a private suite for Lydia and hired a team of premium private-duty nurses to ensure she lacked nothing. But his immediate task was the girls. He drove them to Lydia's modest house in the temporary rental SUV he had secured.
The house was a small, charming craftsman in the leafy neighborhood of Northeast Portland. It was a home filled with love, but as Nathan walked through the front door, the stark reality of Lydia’s financial struggle hit him like a physical blow. The porch steps creaked dangerously. The kitchen linoleum was worn down to the backing in front of the sink. On the refrigerator, a color-coded calendar detailed Lydia’s grueling schedule: alternating twelve-hour night shifts, school pickup carpools, and pediatric appointments.
She had done this all alone. On a resident’s, and then an attending's, salary, while balancing three identical children.
"This is our house," Clara announced, shedding her gray coat and hanging it neatly on a low peg. "You have to step over the rug in the hallway because the floorboard underneath is broken and it makes a loud pop that wakes up Mateo next door."
"Who is Mateo?" Nathan asked, tracking her movements.
"The neighbor's cat," Nora whispered, slipping past him toward the small living room.
Nathan sat on the faded fabric sofa, watching his daughters move through their space with practiced efficiency. They didn't ask for snacks; Sophie automatically went to the kitchen, pushed a small step stool to the counter, and began pouring apple juice into three plastic cups, her movements precise and careful.
"How long has Mommy been sick?" Nathan asked, joining them in the kitchen, gently taking the heavy juice jug from Sophie’s hands to finish the pour.
"She's been coughing since Halloween," Sophie said, looking up at him. "She said it was just a cold. But on Tuesday night, she fell down in the hallway. She told me to call the number on the yellow sticky note in her top drawer if she didn't wake up by morning. I didn't want to call it because she looked so peaceful sleeping on the floor, but then her skin turned the color of milk. So I called Dr. Chen."
Nathan closed his eyes, a wave of nausea washing over him. His daughters had spent a night watching over their unconscious mother, terrified, carrying a burden that would have broken most adults.
As the afternoon turned into evening, Nathan tried his best to manage the domestic routine. He tried to cook dinner, but his lack of experience in a kitchen was painfully obvious. He burned the grilled cheese sandwiches, the smoke alarm shrieking through the small house. Panic flared in the girls' eyes at the noise, sending them scrambling into a tight cluster behind the sofa.
Nathan quickly ripped the battery out of the alarm, his hands shaking. He walked over to the sofa, kneeling before them. "Hey. Hey, it’s okay. Just a little too much heat. I’m sorry I scared you."
Clara peeked out from behind Sophie. "Mommy never burns the bread. And she told us that fire is dangerous."
"I know. I'm not very good at this yet," Nathan admitted, his chest aching with a mixture of incompetence and shame. "But I'm going to learn. I promise."
That night, bedtime was a revelation of agony and beauty. The three girls shared a single large bedroom upstairs, their three small twin beds lined up against the wall like a row of soldiers. Nathan sat on a wooden stool in the center of the room.
"Will you read to us?" Nora asked, holding out a worn copy of The Secret Garden.
Nathan took the book. His voice, usually commanding and resonant in glass boardrooms, softened into a gentle cadence as he began to read. As the pages turned, he watched their eyelids grow heavy. First Clara, her fingers still stained with charcoal; then Nora, curled into a tight ball; and finally Sophie, who fought sleep the longest, her sea-glass eyes locked onto his face as if she was afraid he would vanish if she closed them.
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When they were all asleep, Nathan walked down to the living room. He sat in the dark, the silence of the house pressing in on him. He pulled out his personal tablet and opened his bank accounts. He looked at the staggering array of digits—the wealth that could buy islands, skyscrapers, and sports teams.
And yet, it hadn't been able to buy his daughters a safe floorboard, or keep his ex-fiancée from collapsing from sheer exhaustion on a Tuesday night. He felt profoundly, completely bankrupt.
