The room wasn’t the sterile, pristine white box he was used to. The main overhead lights were off. Instead, a string of Christmas lights—where had those come from?—was draped haphazardly over the curtain rod, casting a magical, twinkling glow over the room.
In the center of the room was the maid.
Her name was Clara. He remembered now. The agency said she was young, twenty-four, a nursing student working part-time. She was wearing her simple gray uniform, but she had tied a red ribbon around her ponytail. She was barefoot.
And she was dancing.
She wasn’t just swaying; she was doing a silly, exaggerated waltz with a giant teddy bear, dipping it low, spinning it around. She was humming the Christmas song, laughing softly to herself.
But that wasn’t what stopped Philip’s heart.
It was Lydia.
His daughter, the girl who hadn’t moved voluntarily in eighteen months, was not in her specialized orthopedic chair.
She was standing.
Philip felt his knees go weak. He had to lean against the doorframe to keep from falling.
Lydia was holding onto the edge of her crib with one hand. Her little legs, which looked so fragile in her pink pajamas, were trembling slightly, but they were holding her weight.
And she wasn’t staring at the wall.
She was staring at Clara. Her eyes, usually so glassy and vacant, were wide open. They were tracking the maid’s movements.
Clara spun the teddy bear and made it “kiss” Lydia on the nose.
“Boop!” Clara whispered loudly.
And then, it happened. The sound that Philip had convinced himself he would never hear again.
A giggle.
It was rusty, small, and sounded like a hiccup. But it was a laugh.
“See?” Clara said, her voice full of warmth, ignoring the “no speaking” rule the doctors had instilled. “Mr. Bear thinks you’re a great dancer, Lyds. Come on. One step. Just for Mr. Bear.”
Clara took a step back, extending her hands toward the child. She wasn’t treating Lydia like a patient. She wasn’t checking a chart. She was looking at her like a little girl who wanted to play.
“Come on, peanut,” Clara encouraged, wiggling her fingers. “You want the bear? You gotta come get the bear.”
She’s bribing her, Philip thought, his mind racing. The doctors said no pressure. They said—
Lydia let go of the crib.
Philip stopped breathing. She’s going to fall. I have to catch her. He took a step forward, ready to rush in.
But he froze.
Lydia wobbled. She swayed like a sapling in the wind. She looked terrified for a split second. But then Clara did a funny little shimmy with her shoulders and made the bear dance again.
Lydia’s face scrunched up in concentration. She lifted her right foot. It hovered in the air, uncertain.
“That’s it,” Clara whispered, her voice fierce and loving. “You got it. You’re strong. You’re a tiger. Let’s go.”
Lydia stomped her foot down.
One step.
She wobbled, balanced, and then dragged her left foot forward.
Two steps.
“Yes!” Clara cheered softly, dropping to her knees to be at eye level. “Come to Clara. Come on.”
Lydia took a third step, unbalanced, and pitched forward.
Philip gasped aloud.
But Clara was there. She caught the child in her arms, scooping her up before she hit the floor. But instead of putting her back in the chair, Clara pulled Lydia into a tight hug, spinning her around on her knees on the carpet.
“You did it! You walked! You’re walking, Lyds! You’re flying!”
And Lydia… Lydia threw her head back and let out a squeal of pure delight. She wrapped her tiny arms around Clara’s neck and buried her face in the maid’s shoulder.
Philip stood in the doorway, tears streaming down his face, soaking his expensive collar. He was trembling so hard his teeth chattered.
Clara froze. She must have sensed him. Or maybe she heard the briefcase he had dropped earlier.
She turned around, still holding Lydia on the floor. Her eyes went wide with terror when she saw the billionaire standing there. She scrambled to stand up, lifting Lydia with her, her face draining of color.
“M-Mr. Arden,” she stammered, clutching Lydia protectively. “I… I’m so sorry. I know the rules. I know I wasn’t supposed to… I just… she looked so bored and…”
She was rambling, terrified she was about to be fired. She thought she had broken the rules.
Philip walked into the room. He felt like he was walking on holy ground.
He stopped two feet away from the maid and his daughter.
“Mr. Arden, please,” Clara pleaded, her voice shaking. “I’ll pack my things. Just… don’t be mad at her.”
Philip looked at Clara. Then he looked at Lydia. Lydia looked back at him. For the first time in a year and a half, she actually looked at him. Not through him. At him.
“Da-da?”
The word was barely a whisper. A croak.
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