I came home early and caught my plus-size nanny sitting in the mud while my three sons dragged her across the lawn with a rope—something that should have made me furious. But then I heard a sound I hadn’t heard since their mother died: my boys were laughing, and within minutes, I was the one standing in the grass holding the other end of that rope.

An hour later, the house smelled entirely different.

The scent of chemical polish and cold wax had been replaced by the steam of warm water, lavender soap, and roasted chicken from the kitchen.

I had showered in the master suite, throwing my ruined suit into the hamper, and changed into a pair of worn jeans and a plain gray sweatshirt—clothes I hadn't worn since before Isabella died.

When I walked down to the dining room, I found Mrs. Gable standing near the entrance, looking utterly bewildered.

Instead of the usual formal setup—where the boys sat in cushioned high chairs six feet apart while a nanny spoon-fed them prepared purees—Emma had moved the high chairs away entirely. She had placed three booster seats side-by-side at the main mahogany dining table.

The boys were sitting there, clean and wearing matching flannel pajamas. They were eating roasted vegetables and chicken with their hands, laughing as Emma demonstrated how to make "dinosaur noises" while chewing.

Mrs. Gable walked up to me, shaking her head. "Mr. Moretti, this is completely improper. The table surface is antique mahogany. The boys are supposed to follow the dietary rotation prescribed by Dr. Vance—"

"Mrs. Gable," I interrupted quietly, setting a hand on her shoulder. "Go home for the evening."

She blinked. "Sir?"

"Go home. Take the weekend off," I said, keeping my tone firm but soft. "Miss Brooks and I will handle dinner and bedtime."

Mrs. Gable looked from me to the noisy, messy table, realized the world had fundamentally shifted, dipped her head silently, and left the room.

I walked over to the table and pulled out the large armchair at the head. I sat down, picked up a piece of chicken with my fingers, and looked at my sons.

Lucas stopped chewing, his small brow furrowing. "Daddy eat with us?"

"Daddy eats with you every night from now on," I said.

Liam reached across the table, his small, clean hand grasping my wrist. He didn't say a word, but he didn't pull away either. He just held my wrist while he ate a carrot with his other hand.

Emma sat across from us, watching the scene with quiet satisfaction.

"You did well out there today, Mr. Moretti," she said softly, cutting a piece of potato on her plate.