Chapter 19

Annie's POV

I set down my stylus and massaged my cramping fingers. The dinosaur illustration I'd been working on for hours was nearly complete, but my concentration was slipping. Howard's voice drifted through the half-open door as he conducted his business call next door. Something about his steady, measured tone helped anchor me when my thoughts started racing.It was strange how quicklyI'd come to rely on his predictable presence.

I noticed a photo on the bookshelf-Lucy with her parents before the yacht accident. The smiling, carefree child in that picture was nothing like the quiet, hesitant girl who now lived with us.

Her sudden regression worried me more than I wanted to admit. She'd stopped calling me "Mommy." No more nods or head shakes. No eye contact.It was like watching our former progress vanish overnight.

At dinner yesterday, when I'd offered her more dessert, she'd just stared at her plate with hunched shoulders. I caught Howard's frown across the table. He'd noticed too.

Something or someone had hurt her. I needed to find out what.

I tapped my tablet screen, an idea forming. If Lucy couldn't talk to me directly, maybe I could reach her through drawing-the one language I truly understood. I opened my neglected social media account and checked my illustration portfolio. The comment section was filled with messages I hadn't noticed before: "*My daughter asks for your dinosaur pictures every night before bed.*"

"*My son has your pterodáctyl taped above his bed.*"

"*As a preschool teacher, my students love your work. When will you publish a book?*"

"*Have you considered art therapy? Children connect with your style.*"

That last comment stopped me cold. I'd studied illustration in Boston before giving it up for Philip. "Just a hobby," he'd called it whenever I mentioned pursuing it seriously.

Yet here were strangers telling me my work mattered.

My gaze drifted to Lucy's family drawing on the wall. Three stick figures-Howard,Lucy,and me-holding hands under a yellow sun. I remembered her concentrated expression as she'd carefully labeled each person.

Maybe this was my answer. If Lucy couldn't talk about what was bothering her,perhaps she could draw it.

I grabbed some sketchbooks, pencils, and markers and headed to her room,hoping I was right.

Lucy sat on her bed with hands folded tightly in her lap, watching her butterfly mobile. When I walked in, she glanced up but didn't smile. "Want to help me with some drawings?" I asked, dumping my supplies on the edge of her bed. "I could use a creative partner tonight." Lucy's eyes flickered with interest. I opened my sketchbook and started drawing. "Look, it's us-you, me, and your dad." I sketched three simple figures. "What do you think?"

She leaned forward and nodded-barely, but it was something.

"Your turn." I handed her paper and colored pencils. "Draw whatever you want."

She hesitated before picking up a blue pencil. Her first marks were tentative, but grew bolder with each stroke. I drew alongside her, letting the quiet build a bridge between us.

When she finished, she pushed her picture toward me. Three figures-Howard,herself, and me-holding hands under a tree.

"This is beautiful," I said, meaning it. "You've captured us perfectly."

The corner of her mouth twitched upward.

"Let's do another," I suggested, handing her fresh paper. "Maybe those butterflies you like?"

With each drawing, Lucy inched closer until our shoulders touched.Her body relaxed, the wall between us crumbling sketch by sketch.

After our fifth drawing, I put down my pencil. "Lucy, you've been very quiet lately. Is something wrong?" Lucy froze, her marker suspended over the paper. Then, barely audible,she whispered, "Mommy..." Relief washed over me."Yes,sweetheart?" "Why didn't you call me your daughter today?""What? When?" I asked, confused.

"At school..." Her lip trembled. "Brían said you weren't really my mom.He said you're just taking care of me until... until I'm better... because my real parents are dead."

My stomach dropped. Brian-Philip's son-had found Lucy at school despite my careful efforts to keep tem apart.

"He said I stole his mommy," she continued, almost inaudibly. "He said you'll go back to him and his dad later."

I clenched my jaw, fighting back anger. A five-year-old couldn't have invented these ideas-they came from Sarah1, had to. I took a deep breath before my rage showed on my face.

"Lucy," I took her hands in mine. "Listen carefully. You are *not* stealing me from anyone. I'm here because I *want* to be here with you."

She searched my face. "But I'm not really your daughter."

"Family isn't about blood," I said, squeezing her fingers. "It's about love.And you,Lucy Thompson,have my whole heart."

I grabbed a fresh paper and drew a quick heart. "See? I'm putting the people I love inside this heart." I wrote "Lucy" in the center, then "Howard" beside it. "The truth is," I admitted, "I've always wanted a daughter. I feel lucky I found you." Her eyes filled with tears."Really?" "Really. You are my daughter in all the ways that matter.Nothing will change that."

Lucy threw herself into my arms so hard I almost fell backward.She buried her face against my shoulder, trembling. "I love you, Mommy," she whispered fiercely.

"I love you too, sweetheart," I said, blinking back tears. "So much."

We stayed tangled together until her breathing steadied. When she finally pulled away, her expression had cleared, the doubt replaced by certainty.

"Can we draw more?" she asked, her voice stronger.

"Of course," I handed her fresh paper. "What would you like to draw next?

The front door opened, but we barely noticed until footsteps echoed down the hallway. Lucy's head snapped up, her body instantly rigid.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

Without answering, she slipped off the bed and crept to the doorway.I followed,puzzled by her sudden fear.

Through the crack, I saw Howard walking toward his study, his shoulders stiff. Beside him walked an elegantly dressed older woman I recognized from photos-Margaret Thompson, his mother. Lucy backed away from the door and grabbed my hand. "Grandma's here..." she whispered, voice shaking. Hler fear confused me. What had Margaret done to make Lucy so terrified?