Nicholas
The soft glow of the party lights reflected off the conservatory’s glass walls, filtering over the scattered wrapping paper and the remnants of Noah’s dragon cake. My son was sitting on the floor, clinging tightly to Faith’s handmade scrapbook, a faint, contented smile still lingering on his lips.
For the first time in two years, the suffocating darkness in my chest had cleared.
Then the heavy double glass doors of the conservatory were shoved open with a loud, echoey bang.
The laughter in the room died instantly. Chef Jean froze with a stack of dessert plates in hand, and Mrs. Hayes drew in a sharp, worried breath.
My father walked in first, his polished silver cane striking the floorboards with a heavy, ominous thud. Directly beside him was my mother, Eleanor, her tailored
