James Morrison was a man who solved problems with checks. If a pipe burst, he hired the best plumber. If a stock tanked, he bought the dip. But his three sons—David, Desmond, and Daniel—were a problem money couldn’t fix.
Since his wife, Elena, had passed away two years ago, the triplets had turned into terrors. They were only five years old, but they had already chewed through twenty-three nannies. Agencies had blacklisted the Morrison residence. The boys screamed through the night, fought during the day, and refused to let anyone but James—and barely him—get close.
James was exhausted. He had just flown in from a brutal week of negotiations in Tokyo, his head pounding, his bones aching. All he wanted was a scotch and silence.
When he walked into his sprawling Boston estate, the silence was what scared him. Usually, at 10:00 PM, the house vibrated with the sounds of tantrums—crying, things breaking, feet stomping. Tonight? Nothing.
He dropped his briefcase in the foyer. “Mrs. Chen?” he called out, but the housekeeper had likely retired to her quarters.
Panic pricked at his chest. He took the stairs two at a time, loosening his tie as he ran toward the boys’ room. Empty. The beds were unmade, stripped of sheets.
His heart hammered against his ribs. He turned toward the master bedroom at the end of the hall. The door was ajar. A soft, rhythmic sound drifted out—a sound he hadn’t heard in two years. Snoring.
James pushed the door open and froze. The blood rushed to his face, hot and violent.
There, in his custom king-sized bed, lay Martha Davies. She was the quiet, middle-aged woman he had hired a month ago to scrub floors and do laundry. She wasn’t a nanny. She wasn’t supposed to be near the children.
But there she was, on her back, arms spread wide. Curled into her left side was David. Tucked under her right arm was Desmond. And sprawled across her chest, rising and falling with her breath, was Daniel.
They were asleep. deeply, peacefully asleep.
For a second, the image didn’t register as wholesome; it registered as an invasion. This was his sanctuary. This was the bed he had shared with his wife.
“What the hell are you doing?” James’s voice was a low growl, cutting through the peace like a serrated blade.
Martha’s eyes snapped open. She didn’t jump. She didn’t gasp. She blinked, orienting herself, and met his gaze with a terrifying calmness. She carefully placed a hand on Daniel’s back to keep him from startling.
“Mr. Morrison,” she whispered, her voice raspy with sleep. “I can explain.”
“Get out,” James hissed, stepping into the room. “You’re fired. Get out of my house. Now.”
“Sir, please, the boys—”
“I don’t care!” James shouted, though he tried to keep his voice down, the rage vibrating in his throat. “You crossed a line. Leave.”
Martha looked at him, searching his face for a shred of understanding. Finding none, she nodded slowly. With the grace of a ghost, she slid out from under the children. She replaced her body warmth with a heavy duvet, tucking it around David’s shoulders. She smoothed Daniel’s hair. She whispered a silent prayer over Desmond.
She grabbed her shoes. She didn’t look at James as she walked past him. She held her head high, though her shoulders slumped with a heavy sadness.
James watched her go, then slammed the door shut behind her.
He stood there, breathing hard, waiting for the inevitable. He waited for the boys to wake up screaming. He waited for the chaos.
But they slept.
James walked to the edge of the bed. He looked at Daniel’s face. The boy’s fists, usually clenched in anger, were open. There was no tear-streaked grimace. He looked… safe.
James rubbed his face, the adrenaline fading into a heavy guilt. Why was she in the bed?
He turned to the nightstand to put down his watch, and that’s when he saw it. A piece of lined notebook paper, folded into a square, resting under the lamp. It had his name on it.
He unfolded it. The handwriting was neat, slanted script.
Mr. Morrison,
I know I am not the nanny. I know my place is the kitchen and the laundry room. But tonight, the storm was loud. The boys were screaming. The new nanny you hired—Miss Perkins—she locked herself in the bathroom and quit over the phone an hour ago.
The boys were tearing the room apart. They weren’t being bad, Sir. They were terrified. I went up to clean the mess, and Daniel asked me a question. He asked, “Why doesn’t the bed smell like Mommy anymore?”
They didn’t need a sleep specialist. They didn’t need discipline. They needed to remember what it felt like to be held. They told me that when they sleep alone, the cold wakes them up. They said they were waiting for you, but you’re always gone.
I laid down just to calm them for a moment. I let them smell the lavender soap I use—the same brand you told me your late wife used to buy. I told them stories about a King who travels the world to build a castle for his princes. They fell asleep in minutes.
I’m sorry I fell asleep too. I didn’t mean to intrude. I just didn’t have the heart to let go.
– Martha
James read the note twice. The third time, he couldn’t finish it because his vision blurred.
Lavender. He inhaled sharply. The room smelled faintly of it. Elena’s scent. Martha hadn’t just been sleeping; she had been acting as a vessel for a memory his children were desperate to hold onto.
He looked at his sons. He had spent two years hiring experts to fix their behavior, while he buried himself in work to avoid his own grief. He was the King building the castle, but he had left the princes alone in the cold.
“Oh, god,” James whispered.
He ran.
He didn’t grab his coat. He didn’t put his shoes back on. He sprinted down the stairs, past a startled Mrs. Chen, and burst out the front door.
The Boston rain was freezing, a sheet of ice against his skin. He ran down the long driveway, his socks soaking through instantly. The iron gates were closed.
“Martha!” he screamed.
The street was empty. The streetlights reflected on the wet asphalt.
Then, half a block down, he saw a figure under a yellow umbrella, walking toward the bus stop.
“Martha! Wait!”
He sprinted, his lungs burning. She turned, the umbrella tilting back. When she saw him—soaked, shivering, desperate—her expression softened.
He skidded to a stop in front of her, bending over, hands on his knees, gasping for air.
“Mr. Morrison? You’ll catch your death,” she said, moving the umbrella to cover him.
“I read… the note,” James choked out. He straightened up, water dripping from his nose. “I read the note.”
Martha looked down at her shoes. “I shouldn’t have been in the bed, Sir. It was disrespectful.”
“No,” James said, his voice cracking. He grabbed her hand. “No. You were the only one who listened to them. You were the only one who saw them.”
He squeezed her hand. “I fired twenty-three nannies because they tried to control my sons. You… you just loved them.”
“They’re good boys, Mr. Morrison,” Martha said softly. “Just lonely.”
“So am I,” James admitted, the truth hitting him harder than the cold. “Please. Come back. Not as the maid. I don’t care about the floors. Be their nanny. Be their… family.”
Martha studied him for a long moment. She saw the arrogance stripped away, leaving just a father who was trying, and failing, to keep his world from falling apart.
“I charge double for triplets,” she said, a small smile playing on her lips.
James laughed, a wet, ragged sound. “Done. Triple. Whatever you want.”
They walked back to the house together under the yellow umbrella.
When they entered the foyer, dripping wet, a sound drifted down from upstairs. It wasn’t screaming. It was the pitter-patter of small feet.
Three sleepy heads poked through the banister at the top of the stairs.
“Martha?” Daniel’s voice wavered. “Did you leave?”
James looked up at his sons. He didn’t bark orders. He didn’t tell them to go back to bed.
“No,” James called up, his voice steady and warm. “She didn’t leave. She just went to get me. We’re all here now.”
Martha went up the stairs, and the three boys tackled her legs. James watched, leaning against the doorframe, realizing that for the first time in two years, the house didn’t feel like a museum of grief. It felt like a home.
