Chapter 69
Mrs. Sterling's POV:
I knew Claire Ashford coming to me meant nothing good. That girl never did anything without an agenda—always scheming.
But this?
Holy hell. I wasn't prepared for this.
My hands trembled as I stared at the photograph she'd given me. A little girl with golden curls and gray-green eyes—Adam's eyes—stared back at me from what looked like a daycare photo day.
"Her name is Amy Bennett," Claire said. "Four years old. Born in Cleveland General Hospital. Single mother. No father listed on the birth certificate."
I couldn't breathe.
The timeline fit. The features fit. That little nose, those eyes—I'd seen them before, staring back at me from Adam's baby pictures in the album upstairs.
My great-granddaughter.
Four years old. Four years I didn't know she existed.
I fumbled for my phone, hands clumsy with emotion, and barked at my driver through tears I couldn't quite control. "Bring the car around. Now."
Twenty minutes later, we were pulling up to an address I'd memorized from Claire's "evidence"—a shabby building in Somerville with peeling paint and a crooked sign: Sunny Days Community Daycare.
The irony of the name wasn't lost on me.
I pushed through the front door, scanning the colorful chaos of tiny chairs and crayon drawings. A young teacher looked up from wiping a table.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm here for Amy Bennett." My voice came out sharper than I intended. "Miss Robinson's class."
The teacher's eyes narrowed. "And you are?"
"Her great-grandmother."
Silence.
"I've never seen you before."
"I just flew in from—" I stopped. "I'm visiting from out of town."
"Did Maya tell you about our late pickup policy? Amy's in extended care until six."
Extended care. Because my grandson was too blind to see what was right in front of him, and Maya was too proud—or too scared—to tell him the truth.
"No," I admitted. "I didn't know."
The teacher—Miss Robinson, according to her name tag—crossed her arms. Something in her expression shifted from professional to protective. "I'll need to call Maya to verify—"
"No!" I caught myself. Lowered my voice. "Don't bother her at work. I just... I wanted to see Amy for a moment."
"That's not how this works." Miss Robinson's tone went cold. "We have protocols. Stranger danger is real, and I don't care if you say you're the Queen of England—"
"Please." The word scraped out of me. "I won't take her. I just need to see her. One look."
We stared at each other. I could see the calculation in her eyes—was I a threat or just a confused old woman?
Finally, she sighed. "Wait here."
She disappeared down a hallway. I gripped the edge of the reception desk, heart hammering.
Five minutes felt like five hours.
Then I heard it—a child's laugh, bright and clear, floating from somewhere deeper in the building.
Miss Robinson returned alone. "Amy's busy with an art project. I'm not interrupting her afternoon for someone I can't verify." Her expression softened slightly. "If you're really her great-grandmother, you'll understand why I can't just hand her over to a stranger."
She was right. Of course she was right.
But it didn't stop the ache in my chest.
"I understand," I whispered.
I turned to leave, then paused. "What time does Maya usually pick her up?"
"Six-thirty."
Because she has no one to help her. Because my idiot grandson knocked her up and disappeared, and she's been doing this alone for four years.
I nodded and walked out.
But I didn't leave.
My driver parked across the street, and I sat in the back seat like some kind of stalker, watching the daycare entrance. Parents trickled in and out. Happy families. Fathers swinging toddlers onto their shoulders. Mothers juggling diaper bags and car keys.
At 6:30 PM, Maya's beat-up Toyota pulled up.
I leaned forward, pressing my face to the tinted window.
Maya climbed out, looking exhausted in her work clothes—a pencil skirt and blouse that had seen better days. She hurried inside and emerged two minutes later holding Amy's hand.
And then I saw her. Really saw her.
My great-granddaughter.
Even from across the street, even in the fading light, I could see Adam in every line of her face. The way she tilted her head when Maya spoke. The stubborn set of her jaw.
They climbed into the car, Amy chattering away, Maya smiling despite the exhaustion carved into her features.
The Toyota pulled away.
I burst into tears.
"Ma'am?" My driver twisted in his seat, alarmed. "Are you alright?"
"I'm perfect," I sobbed. "Absolutely perfect."
He didn't look convinced.
---
By the time we reached the Beacon Hill estate, I'd pulled myself together. Mostly.
Robert was already home, standing in the foyer reviewing something on his phone. He looked up when I walked in.
"Mom. You're late for dinner."
"I had errands."
His eyes dropped to the envelope clutched in my hand—the one Claire had given me, stuffed with photos and documents I hadn't been able to stop looking at during the drive.
"What's that?"
"Nothing." I shoved it into my coat pocket. "Nothing important."
"Mom—"
"I'm tired, Robert. I'm going to lie down."
I brushed past him and headed for the stairs.
"You haven't eaten," he called after me.
"Not hungry."
In my room, I carefully pulled out the envelope and spread its contents across my bed. Photos of Amy at daycare. A copy of her birth certificate—Maya Bennett, mother. Father: Unknown.
Unknown.
I wanted to laugh. Or scream. Maybe both.
Instead, I tucked everything into my jewelry box, locked it, and hid the key in a place only I would think to look.
Then I went downstairs for dinner.
---
Robert was already seated at the dining table, a plate of salmon and asparagus in front of him. He gestured to the empty chair across from him.
"Feeling better?"
"Fine." I sat.
The staff brought my plate. I stared at it.
"You're not eating," Robert observed.
Maya's exhausted face when she picked up Amy. That beat-up Toyota. Extended care until six because she has no one to help.
"Not hungry."
"Mom." He set down his fork. "What's going on?"
"Nothing," I said. "Just tired."
"You've been acting strange all evening."
I picked up my fork, pushed a piece of asparagus around my plate. Four years that girl did it alone. Four years we could have been there.
"I'm allowed to have an off day."
"Are you sick? Do you need to see Dr. Morrison?"
"For God's sake, Robert, I'm not dying." My voice cracked. "I'm just not in the mood to eat a five-course meal."
He studied me for a long moment. I kept my eyes on my plate before he could see the moisture gathering there.
Finally, he sighed and returned to his food.
We ate in silence. Or rather, he ate. I moved food from one side of my plate to the other, throat too tight to swallow.
"I'm going to bed," I announced, standing abruptly.