The house was quiet—too quiet for a mansion usually filled with the soft hum of staff moving through its wide halls. Denise shifted the laundry basket from one hip to the other, balancing it carefully while listening for any sign of the baby.
She had been a maid in wealthy homes for years, but this one felt different. The Witman estate was more than polished marble and perfectly staged rooms. It was a place where she had grown attached to the smallest heartbeat inside it.
Little Ethan.
Ethan was eight months old, full of curiosity, already crawling faster than she could fold a set of sheets. That morning, she had set him down on a soft blanket in the corner of the laundry room while she worked. He had a pile of toys nearby, but like any child, what fascinated him most were the things that weren’t meant for him—the shiny knobs of the washer, the round window that reflected his….Read Full Story Here…………….
