Susanna Bredford burst into the study with dramatic flair, her silk robe trailing behind her like a costume on set. Her eyes were wide, lips trembling, but her tone was controlled—like always. A performance.
"James," she said, clutching the newspaper detailing Mary's vast inheritance left for George. "You never told me she had this kind of wealth. Property, investments, a separate portfolio? I thought she was just—just your wife!"
"She was never just anything," James muttered, voice low.
Susanna blinked. "That money should be ours. You're his father. You should have full custody of George. You can manage the estate—"
"No," James said firmly.
She stared at him, stunned. "What do you mean, no?"
"I mean I won't fight the Greens for custody. George belongs with them. With his grandparents. Not us."
"James, be reasonable. The boy is just a child—"
"I wasn't reasonable when I let his mother die," James cut in sharply. "I won't make the same mistake with him."
The room fell silent. For the first time, Susanna had no ready reply, no charming smile to fix things. And James, for the first time, didn't look at her like she was the center of his world.
The cracks had begun to show. And Susanna could feel the cold air of something slipping away.
The sun streamed gently through the large windows of the Green family estate. The medical team had left, and George now rested in a quiet guestroom, wrapped in layers of soft blankets, fevered but no longer critical.
Lucia sat by his side, holding his hand, whispering stories of his mother from her youth. John paced nearby, reading over medical notes with a stern eye, questioning every detail, ensuring nothing was overlooked again.
James had offered to bring in the top specialists from his private contacts. But John had refused. "You had your chance to care for your family. Now let us handle what you failed to protect."
Outside the door, James stood for a moment… and didn't knock.
Inside, George stirred. His fevered dreams had been wild—shadows and stars, blood and silver light. But there was one constant: his mother. She stood with him, silent, sometimes smiling, sometimes crying, always there. An angel with familiar warmth. And sometimes… she whispered things.
Lucia noticed the boy's lips move faintly. "Mama…" he murmured.
She squeezed his hand gently, tears glistening in her eyes. "She's with you, my darling. Always."
Later that evening, George awoke with a sharp clarity. He asked for paper and pen. His hands trembled, but he began sketching a strange design—an idea for an automated water filtration system he had once seen in a documentary, now improved by his own observations. John leaned over his shoulder, astonished.
"This… this is remarkable," he murmured.
George didn't respond. He kept sketching.
For a boy of six, his vision, logic, and detail were unnaturally advanced. It wasn't just a moment of distraction—it was genius stirring to life, guided by grief and memory.
Outside, James sat on the front steps in silence.
Inside, Mary watched as a silent spirit, her eyes filled with tears—not of sorrow, but of fierce, maternal pride.