Chapter 8 - The Late-Night Confession
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The mansion was asleep by the time Pedro finally made his way to the kitchen for a glass of water. It was past one in the morning.
He expected the room to be empty, but a small lamp was on over the island. Abigail sat there, dressed in modest gray sweatpants and an oversized college sweatshirt, reading a paperback novel.
She looked up as he entered, immediately moving to stand.
"Sit down, Abigail," Pedro said, his voice quiet. He walked to the fridge and poured two glasses of cold water, sliding one across the marble to her.
"Thank you," she murmured, pulling her book closer.
Pedro leaned against the counter, studying her. Without the crisp uniform, she looked younger, softer, but the steely resilience in her eyes remained.
"You were right," Pedro said abruptly, staring down at his glass.
Abigail frowned. "About what?"
"About me trying to find a replacement. About me hiding from them." Pedro let out a long, exhausted sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "I thought if I gave them everything—the best house, the best schools, the best toys—it would make up for the fact that I don't know how to talk to them without breaking down."
Abigail didn't offer a polite, empty reassurance. She simply listened.
"When she died," Pedro continued, his voice cracking slightly, "it took all the light out of this house. And I didn't know how to turn it back on. So I just worked. I ran away."
"Grief makes cowards of us all, Pedro," Abigail said softly, using his first name as naturally as breathing. "But you can't outrun it. And your boys are waiting for you at the finish line, wondering why you won't stop and hold them."
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He looked up at her. The dim kitchen light caught the depth of her brown eyes. In that quiet, unguarded moment, Pedro didn't see a nanny. He saw a partner. He saw someone who wasn't afraid of his darkness.
"Teach me," Pedro whispered, the request feeling heavier than any contract he had ever signed. "Teach me how to be their father again."
