My heart stopped.
Daisy put her small finger on the 'DADDY' figure. "He's sad." She said it like a diagnosis. “You help me feel better. You can help daddy feel better..." She pointed again at the drawing of the three of us, hand in hand. "And keep mommy’s place open."
It was an impossible command delivered with a five-year-old's certainty that adults just needed to try harder.
"Daisy, sweetie, I don't think?—"
"Please?" She looked up at me with those gray eyes, Elena's eyes, Jack's eyes. "Please ask daddy to keep mommy’s place open?"
It was the same 'please' that had unlocked herbedroom door. It was a weapon I had no defense against.
I looked from her earnest, hopeful face to the drawing of our joined stick-figure hands. I thought of the children asking if I'd be back. I thought of Margaret's kind, weary eyes.
"Okay," I heard myself say, the word tasting like fate. "I'll talk to him."
Daisy nodded, a swift, decisive movement. Mission understood. She carefully gathered her drawings back into the folder, hugged it to her chest, and skipped out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with the aftershocks of her request.
For a long minute, I just sat there, my hands trembling on the cold marble counter.
I couldn't do this. What was I thinking? Jack Spencer had spent nine months plotting my destruction. He'd only stopped because Daisy needed me. Asking him for this, to let me help with Elena's foundation, was insane.
But I'd promised Daisy.
Before my courage could evaporate completely, I stood. The walk down the long hallway to Jack's office felt like walking to my own execution. Each step echoed too loudly. My hand shook as I raised it to knock.
The sound was absurdly loud in the quiet.
"Come in."
His voice was neutral. I pushed the door open. Hewas at his desk, not looking at his computer, but at his phone.
"Margaret texted." He said it without looking up, his tone careful. "She said you were a natural with the children. That they asked for you by name."
A pause. I couldn't read it.
"They want to know if you're coming back next Saturday."
I swallowed, my mouth dry. "The foundation... It's a special place. It shouldn't close."
He finally looked up, his gray eyes hooded. "No," he agreed, his tone was heavy. "It shouldn't. But keeping it open feels like a performance. And shutting it down feels like killing her all over again." He set the phone down with a precise click. "I don't know how to run a children's literacy charity. My skill set is in algorithms and hostile takeovers."
This was my opening. The one Daisy had mandated. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs.
"Daisy showed me her drawings." I stopped. Started again. "She... she made one. Of the three of us. At the foundation." My voice was unsteady, barely above a whisper. "She wants to help. She wants me to help. With Bright Pages."
I forced the next words out before I could choke on them. "And I... I want to?—"
His expression didn't change, but the air in the room grew colder, denser. "Help."
"With the foundation. Not running it, I could never—Margaret runs it. But... helping. The reading sessions. The outreach. Whatever they need." The words were tumbling out now, a chaotic stream. "I was a teacher's aide for a while, before... a long time ago. I'm not qualified, I know that. But today, reading to them... it felt..."
"It felt like what?"
He stood. Walked around the desk. Each step, deliberate. Each breath, controlled. He stopped three feet away, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough to be intimidating.
"It felt like what, Anna?"
"It felt right," I whispered, the admission terrifying in its vulnerability.
