Inside the room, the sound of slow, heavy footsteps approached from the small bathroom. Sofia Romano stepped into the kitchen area, her face pale and her hair falling loosely around her shoulders. She looked exhausted, her spine bowed under the weight of an invisible mountain. She carried a basket of damp clothes, her hands red from scrubbing.
"Emma, sweetie," Sofia said softly, her voice raspy. "Why are you still awake? It's past midnight."
"I waited for you, Mommy," Emma said, offering a small, fragile smile. She pointed to the counter. "I made your dinner. The big piece is for you."
Sofia froze. She looked at the half-loaf of bread wrapped in wax paper, then at the glass of milk diluted with tap water. Tears instantly welled in her tired brown eyes. She dropped the laundry basket and rushed to the child, pulling Emma tight against her chest. She hid her face in Emma's small shoulder, her body shaking with silent, desperate sobs.
"Oh, baby... my sweet baby," Sofia wept softly. "You shouldn't have to do this. You're just a baby..."
"Don't cry, Mommy," Emma murmured, her small hand patting Sofia's back with the gentle rhythm of a seasoned caregiver. "Daddy said I have to be strong. The bread is fresh. I cut it real straight."
In the hallway, Adrian pressed his forehead against the cold wall. The guilt that had consumed him for three years suddenly acquired a new, sharper edge. While he sat in a thirty-room mansion mourning his past, a mother and child who worked under his own roof were starving in silence. Sofia had never asked for an advance on her wages. She had never complained when Charles gave her the toughest cleaning duties. She simply bowed her head, took her tiny paycheck, and brought her daughter back to this decaying building in Cicero.