Chapter 8: A Mother’s Place

Unexpectedly, the maid had not lied.

Zach was gravely ill. Several doctors surrounded his room. As I entered the bedroom, I heard Mrs. Quinn’s gentle voice comforting him from behind a screen.

The house smelled like bleach and lilies, all cold marble and hushed voices. I tiptoed down the hallway, past portraits of grim-faced ancestors, my pulse thrumming in my ears.

"Zach, be good, all right?"

Her voice was all softness, but the set of her jaw was pure steel. Zach’s whimper floated out, muffled by thick blankets.

On the other side, Michael Quinn’s deep voice: "If he still won’t take it, force it down."

The mayor’s voice was tired, exasperated. The doctors exchanged worried glances, caught between orders and ethics.

Mrs. Quinn protested, "How can you treat a child like that?"

Her words were for show, but her hands never trembled. I’d seen her act before.

As she finished, the maid led me through the doorway, and the room fell silent. Mrs. Quinn, sitting by the bed in a designer suit, glanced at me from head to toe with a cool, dismissive look.

She smoothed her skirt, lips pursed. The air felt thick with judgment, as if I’d tracked in dirt from the street.

"Truly difficult to invite a saint."

Her sarcasm slid off me like rain on glass. I kept my eyes on Zach.

Michael Quinn leaned on the chair, looking weary, and gently said to Mrs. Quinn, "You’ve been exhausted for days. Go and rest."

The mayor’s words were gentle, but there was no warmth in them. He barely glanced her way.

"Caring for the child is my duty. I’m not tired," Mrs. Quinn replied softly.

She tilted her chin, determined to keep up appearances.

Michael Quinn lowered his eyes, waving his hand. Though still gentle, his tone brooked no argument: "Go."

Mrs. Quinn’s face stiffened slightly. She adjusted her gold earring and rose gracefully. As she passed me, she paused, her gaze sharp as a blade.

Her perfume lingered in the air long after she’d gone, a cold, floral warning.

Most of the people in the room withdrew. The medicine bowl by the bed steamed gently. Michael Quinn watched me from across the room, his long eyes narrowing.

He wanted me to coax Zach into taking his medicine.

I could feel the weight of his expectations pressing on me like a stone. I swallowed, gathering myself.

But when I approached, Zach just buried his head in the quilt, silent.

His hair was damp with sweat, cheeks flushed. I sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to startle him.

Michael Quinn impatiently cracked his knuckles. "Just coax him the way you do that boy you’re raising outside. Is it that hard to coax your own son?"

As I coaxed Zach, I remembered doing the same for Ben, blowing on hot soup, whispering silly jokes until he smiled.

Despite his words, I could not bring myself to coax Zach. Perhaps because his father was once my boss, and he too saw me as a servant.

I remembered all the times I’d been told to keep out of sight, to eat in the kitchen, to never speak unless spoken to.

So my words were dry as I held the medicine bowl: "Young man, good medicine is bitter."

I kept my tone gentle, but Zach only glared at me, defiance burning in his feverish eyes.

Suddenly, the quilt was thrown aside. Zach glared at me angrily, his face flushed. After a long standoff, he reluctantly leaned over. "Feed me."

His demand was petulant, but I obliged, cradling his head as I’d once done long ago.

Before the medicine touched his lips, he complained it was hot and wanted me to blow on it.

I exhaled over the bowl, steam swirling between us. He watched me with suspicion, testing my patience.

After a sip, he said it was bitter and wanted honey.

I fetched a little honey from the tray, mixing it in. He still wrinkled his nose, but swallowed it.

He dawdled so much that a small bowl of medicine took half a day to finish. Ben was better—even the worst medicine, he drank without a word.

The memory of Ben’s stoic little face flashed in my mind, and I stifled a sigh. I stroked Zach’s hair, humming a bit under my breath.

Seeing this little prince finally quiet, I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking I could go home at dawn. But Zach wanted me to sing a lullaby to lull him to sleep.

His voice was softer now, almost pleading. "You used to sing to me."

Michael Quinn looked over thoughtfully, making me nervous.

His gaze pinned me in place, reminding me of all the invisible lines I’d crossed before.

Back then, when Zach was three, he fell into the pool and got sick. I was locked in the guesthouse by Michael’s order, not allowed out, but I worried and snuck over the fence, injuring my leg.

I remembered the cold sting of the fence wire, the way my heart raced as I limped through the yard. I’d risked everything, desperate to make sure he was safe.

Through the window, Mrs. Quinn let the maids care for Zach perfunctorily, making a show before leaving. The maid dozed off outside while boiling medicine, and Zach, delirious with fever, nearly rolled into the fireplace.

I was startled and sneaked in. Zach slept fitfully, so I softly sang to comfort him. That was the only time I could hold him.

My voice had soothed him then, a low melody threading through the night. For a brief moment, he’d rested his head against my chest, trusting me as only a child can.

Unexpectedly, Zach remembered. I lowered my eyes and lied, "You must be remembering someone else, Zach. I wasn’t allowed in, remember?"

The lie tasted bitter, but I couldn’t let him hope for something I could never give again.

Seeing me refuse, Zach angrily shoved me. "If you don’t want to, then get out. Who cares."

Caught off guard, I fell with the bowl to the ground, my palm pressing into broken porcelain, blood oozing out.

The pain was sharp, sudden. I bit my lip, willing myself not to cry out. The room was silent except for the drip of blood onto the polished floor.