The last curve of my fountain pen on the tablet felt heavier than it should have been. It was already past nine at night, and the glass walls of my office reflected a man who looked powerful but empty.

Below, Chicago stretched infinitely, its bright and distant lights like stars that no longer comforted anyone. I had built half of what I saw.

Towers, developments, entire districts shaped by my signature. My name, Michael Turner, carried weight in both council chambers and city halls. However, none of that filled the quiet space in my chest.

On my desk, framed photographs awaited silence. There, there was a woman in a sunny garden, with a sweet and spontaneous smile. Rebecca. My first wife.

It possessed a serene strength that made the world seem stable. Next to her photo was another frame, smaller and worn. A small laughing pineapple, with flushed cheeks, was holding a blue balloon twice as big.

Ava. My daughter. That laughter had faded from our home after the day Rebecca died giving birth to our son, Lucas.

The pain hadn’t subsided with time. It had simply been buried under schedules, flights, negotiations, and exhaustion.

I left my children in the hands of caregivers, and then a woman who at that moment seemed like a gift from heaven. Patricia Moore. Rebecca’s close friend. Attentive, kind, incredibly patient. Or so I thought.

Patricia came into my life when everything seemed shattered. She organized the house, calmed Ava’s tears, stayed up with Lucas, the newborn, and spoke to me with kindness when words seemed impossible.

Less than a year later, we got married. The world applauded the miracle. The widower, saved. The children, with their mother. Patricia played her role perfectly. At the benevolent ceremonies, she spoke tenderly of the children.

The staff praised her. I became convinced that gratitude was love.

That night, as I closed my suitcase, a voice I had been avoiding began to rise. “When was the last time you slept with Ava? Do you know how Lucas’s laugh sounds?”

My eyes burned as a memory surfaced. Rebecca kneeling in the garden, Ava running between rows of flowers. A promise whispered beside a hospital bed. I will never abandon them.

Something changed. Not tomorrow. Tonight. I left the keys on the desk and drove home. The streets were quiet.

Hope was rekindled as I imagined Ava running towards me, Lucas extending his hand with trembling hands. Even Patricia, I supposed, would welcome my return.

The doors of our building opened slowly. The lawn was immaculate, the lights shone warmly on the trimmed hedges. However, the silence felt strange.

There were no voices. There was no music. Only the noise and the buzzing of insects in the darkness.

Inside, the house smelled of roses, but it felt empty.
“Patricia,” I called.
There was no answer.
“Ava. Lucas.”

I was halfway up the stairs when I heard it. A muffled cry. The sob of a child.

“Please, Mom,” a trembling voice whispered. “Please don’t hurt us. We’re hungry.”

My blood ran cold. Ava. I ran. The door to the playroom was ajar. Inside, Ava sat on the floor, her dress torn and stained.

She clung to Lucas, whose cries were weak and desperate. Standing next to them was Patricia, elegant in a red dress, holding a bottle.

“Silence,” Patricia said abruptly. “If you disobey me again, you’ll sleep outside.”

She dropped the bottle. The milk spilled onto the marble floor. Ava closed her eyes and hugged her brother tighter.

Something inside me broke. “What are you doing to my children?” I screamed.

Patricia turned around. Fear was reflected on her face before transforming into a smile. “Michael, you scared me,” she said sweetly. “I was teaching them discipline.”

I took a step forward and lifted Lucas into my arms. His small body trembled against mine. Ava grabbed my hand without hesitation.

—Go to our room— I told Patricia in a firm, cold voice. —We’ll talk tomorrow.

He chuckled softly and touched my arm. “You’re married. The kids exaggerate.”

I didn’t say anything. I took my children to my room and lay down between them. Ava was asleep, clutching my arm. Lucas was breathing softly against my chest. Shame burned me.

At dawn, I went to the kitchen. Teresa, our lifelong housekeeper, froze when she saw me.

“Sir, I wasn’t expecting you.”

—Teresa, I need the truth —I said in a low voice.

Her hands were trembling. “It’s cruel when you’re like this,” Teresa confessed. “The children are afraid. I tried to help, but she watches everything.”

Rage overwhelmed me. “This ends now,” I said.

That morning, Patricia smiled during breakfast. I smiled back as I played. When she left the room, I whispered instructions to Teresa.

Documents. Photos. Evidence. Later that day, I returned unexpectedly and recorded everything. The screams. Ava’s sobs. Lucas’s crying. Patricia’s threats.

That night I called my lawyer, Paul Simmos. “I need help,” I told him. “She’s my wife.”

Two days later, with a judicial order in hand, everything exploded. Patricia screamed, lunged at Ava, and they had to restrain her. Her mask shattered.

Judge Kare Fields granted immediate custody. Leaving that courthouse with my children was like breathing after drowning.

The following months were joyful and painful, but real. The house was filled with laughter again. Ava whistled. Lucas learned to walk. Teresa became part of the family.

One afternoon, while we were planting new flowers, I realized that something had happened. Not perfectly. Not easily. But sincerely. We weren’t pretending anymore. We were back home.