Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN WHO STOPPED HOLDING THE BABYUpstairs, Elena sat in the rocking chair.
Leo had stopped crying.
Barely.
His small hand rested against her collarbone.
Elena looked at him.
“You deserve adults who are less dramatic.”
Leo blinked.
“Exactly.”
She smiled weakly.
Then the smile disappeared.
She was afraid.
Not of Victoria.
Not only.
Of what happened next.
Employees who became involved in family scandals rarely remained employees.
Even when they had done nothing wrong.
Especially when they had witnessed too much.
Elena’s mother had cleaned hotel rooms.
Her father repaired elevators.
They taught her one rule:
Never become part of rich people’s private wars.
Rich people could afford lawyers.
Workers lost jobs.
Elena had failed spectacularly.
A knock.
She tightened.
“Who?”
“Marcus.”
She opened the door only after setting Leo into the crib.
Marcus stood outside.
His face looked older.
“May I come in?”
“It’s your house.”
“That wasn't the question.”
Elena noticed.
“Yes.”
He entered.
Leo saw him.
No smile.
Marcus looked hurt.
Elena hated that she noticed.
“When did he last eat?”
“An hour ago.”
“Sleep?”
“Thirty minutes before your wife came upstairs.”
Marcus nodded.
Then looked at Elena.
“How long has this been happening?”
“What?”
“Victoria losing control around him.”
Elena’s first instinct was silence.
Marcus understood.
“You’re worried about your job.”
“Yes.”
“You won't lose it for telling the truth.”
“With respect, rich people say things like that before their attorneys become involved.”
Marcus almost smiled.
“Fair.”
Elena hesitated.
Then:
“She doesn’t hit him.”
Marcus exhaled slightly.
“But?”
“She gets angry when he cries.”
“How?”
“She shouts.”
“What else?”
“Leaves.”
“For how long?”
“Sometimes an hour.”
“While alone?”
“With me.”
“You’re working.”
“Yes.”
“So she assumes you’ll take him.”
“Yes.”
Marcus looked at the crib.
“When did you become his primary caregiver?”
“I’m not.”
“Elena.”
She lowered her eyes.
“About three months ago.”
He closed his eyes.
“How did I not know?”
“You travel.”
“Still.”
“You ask Mrs. Hopkins how he is.”
“The nanny supervisor.”
“She tells you he’s fine.”
Marcus felt sick.
Because he had done what busy wealthy parents often did.
He outsourced not only labor.
But knowledge.
Reports replaced presence.
Leo is doing well.
He’s sleeping better.
He likes solids.
All accurate.
None told Marcus who knew those things firsthand.
“Elena.”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry.”
She looked surprised.
“For what?”
“For putting you in a position where protecting my child required risking your employment.”
That was not what she expected.
She nodded.
Then said something harder.
“You also need to be around more.”
Marcus went still.
Elena regretted it.
But continued.
“He knows your voice.”
“He looks toward the door when he hears you.”
“Then you leave.”
Marcus looked at Leo.
Eight months.
How many times had he returned from London after the baby slept?
How many breakfasts had become calls?
How many evenings had he told himself infancy was repetitive?
There would be time later.
Then:
“Do you think I’m a bad father?”
Elena considered.
“No.”
Relief moved across his face.
“You’re an absent one.”
Worse.
Because fixable.
Marcus nodded slowly.
“Thank you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don't be.”
Downstairs a door slammed.
Victoria.
Marcus headed toward it.
Then stopped.
“Elena?”
“Yes?”
“If she comes upstairs, call security.”
Elena stared.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“She is his mother.”
“I know.”
“And?”
Marcus looked at Leo.
“And being his mother does not make every choice safe.”
Then he left.
Elena sat again.
Leo woke.
She lifted him.
This time when he pressed his head against her chest, she felt something uncomfortable.
Love.
Real.
Deep.
Not employment.
And Elena suddenly worried about a different future.
What would happen if Victoria disappeared?
Would Marcus expect Elena to simply remain?
Raise the child?
Become permanent background labor?
She had dreams too.
She had paused nursing school when her father became ill.
Told herself she would return.
Eventually.
Leo needed her.
But she would have to remember:
May you like
Being needed could become another kind of cage.
Even when the cage was built from love.
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