Chapter 5 - The First Breakfast
The next morning, the sun broke through the clouds over Seattle, pouring bright, golden light into the glass conservatory off the main kitchen.
I hadn't slept a single minute.
I stood by the coffee machine in a simple gray sweater and trousers, staring out at the manicured lawn. For three years, that garden had been nothing more than grass that needed cutting. Today, it felt like a playground waiting to happen.
Soft footsteps sounded on the hardwood floor behind me.
I turned around.
Sophia stood in the archway, wearing oversized pink flannel pajamas with rolled-up sleeves. She was rubbing her eyes with her tiny fists, her dark curls standing up in messy morning bedhead.
She spotted me and instantly stopped rubbing her eyes. A bright smile broke across her face.
“Daddy!” she chirped, running across the floor.
My heart did a terrifying, wonderful flip in my chest.
I dropped to one knee and caught her as she crashed into my legs. I lifted her effortlessly into my arms, holding her small body against my chest. She smelled of sleep and warm flannel.
“Good morning, little one,” I whispered, burying my face in her soft hair.
“I hungry,” she announced, tapping my nose with her finger. “Mami makes pancakes with the smiling face.”
Maria entered the kitchen a moment later, looking pale and exhausted, her eyes heavy with dark circles. She stopped when she saw me holding Sophia.
“Mr. Whitfield,” Maria said nervously, reaching for her apron. “I... I can prepare breakfast.”
“No,” I said gently, setting Sophia down on a high stool at the kitchen island. “Today, I make the pancakes.”
Maria blinked, startled. “Sir? You... you don't cook.”
“I used to,” I said softly, looking at the stainless-steel griddle built into the island—the griddle Claire and I had picked out six years ago. “Claire taught me.”
For the next hour, the grand, quiet kitchen filled with sounds that hadn't echoed off its high ceilings in three long years.
The sizzle of batter on hot metal. The clatter of silver spoons. The bright, high-pitched laughter of a two-year-old girl who thought a lopsided pancake shaped like a bear was the greatest artistic masterpiece ever created.
I sat beside Sophia, watching her eat. Every movement she made was a terrifying, beautiful blend of Claire and me. The way she held her fork with three fingers was exactly how I held my pens. The way she wrinkled her nose when she tasted sour berries was identical to Claire’s stubborn expression.
Maria sat at the far end of the counter, quietly drinking her tea, watching us with a mixture of immense relief and quiet heartbreak.
She knew what was coming. She knew that the quiet, hidden life she had built with Sophia was over.
“Maria,” I said, setting my coffee cup down.
She sat up straight. “Yes, Mr. Whitfield?”
“The private medical team will be here at ten o’clock for the DNA swabs,” I said calmly. “Once the results are back in forty-eight hours, Arthur will begin the legal process of establishing my parental rights.”
Maria lowered her head, her tears dripping into her cup. “Are you... are you going to send me to prison, sir?”
Sophia stopped chewing her pancake and looked between the two of us, sensing the shift in tone. She reached out her small, maple-syrup-covered hand and patted Maria’s arm.
“Mami sad?” Sophia asked softly.
May you like
I looked at Maria—at the woman who had spent two years dressing my daughter, feeding her, reading her bedtime stories about Claire, and protecting her from a cold world.
“No, Maria,” I said firmly. “You gave me my daughter. You raised her with love when I was dead inside. I am not sending you to prison. But things are going to change.”
