"Where's Olei?" she asked the second she stepped inside.
"Upstairs. Last room on the right." I moved aside to let her in. "He heard you were coming. Finally drank some milk."
She took off running up the stairs. I followed, watching her push open Olei's door.
"Mom!" Olei shot out of bed and threw himself at her.
Anthea caught him, dropped to her knees, and ran her hand down his back.
"I'm here." Her voice was so soft, like she was soothing a baby. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Really?" Olei looked up at her, eyes already wet. "You won't leave again?"
"No." She kissed his forehead. "I'll stay with you."
I stood in the doorway, watching them, something heavy and sour settling in my chest.
For six years, Olei had woken up crying like this. He'd call for his mom. And all I could do was hold him awkwardly and tell him she was far away. Now, she was finally back.
Olei clung to her neck, wouldn't let go. His face was still streaked with tears, but he was smiling now. "Mom, I missed you so much."
"I missed you, too." Her voice cracked. "Every day since the park, I've been thinking about my baby."
When Anthea moved in,the whole manor came alive. Olei was like a different kid—laughing, running around. He stuck to her like glue, wouldn't let her out of his sight.
"Mom, look at this painting—I made it!"
"Mom, let me show you my toys."
"Mom, can you sleep with me tonight?"
Anthea answered every single request with that same gentle patience. I stood off to the side, watching, and for the first time in a long time, I understood what "home" meant. Just watching them live like this—normal, easy—made me feel something close to happiness.
The next morning, I woke up before the first light broke through the fog. Or maybe I never really fell asleep. Knowing Anthea was just down the hall, behind one wall, breathing the same air under the same roof—it kept my brain buzzing all night.
Since Olei got older, the kitchen staff usually handled breakfast. I was too busy. But today, I wanted to do it myself. I walked into the kitchen and waved off the cook who was already prepping.
I opened the fridge, pulled out eggs, bacon, and toast. Tossed the bread in the toaster, rolled up my sleeves, and got to work. Butter hit the pan with a sizzle, filled the air with that rich, warm smell. I cracked an egg into the pan, waited for it to set, and flipped it clean—perfect sunny-side up. Bacon went in next, fried until it was crispy and dark.
Once everything was plated, I walked out the back door and headed for the garden. Morning dew soaked through my pant legs. The air smelled like dirt and flowers. The garden was a sea of white. Thousands of white dahlias swaying in the breeze, so pure it almost hurt to look at.
I walked through slowly, carefully picking a few of the most perfect blooms. Back in the dining room, I arranged them in a crystal vase and set it in the center of the table. Dewdrops still clung to the petals, catching the light.
"Are those... dahlias?" A voice came from behind me, surprised.
I turned around. Anthea was standing in the doorway, staring at the white flowers on the table. She was wearing a simple beige loungewear set, blonde hair a little messy. Completely unguarded.
"Morning." My voice came out rough. "Just picked them from the garden. Want to go see?"
She hesitated for a second. Then nodded.
I led her through the hallway and pushed open the door to the back garden. She stopped dead in her tracks.
"Why... why are there only dahlias left?" Her voice was tight, eyes wide.
White dahlias covered every inch of the garden, stretching from our feet all the way to the horizon. The morning breeze rolled through, and the flowers moved like waves—like a sea of clouds.
I stopped beside her, my fingers brushing over the dew on a petal without thinking.
