His Wet Nurse

Behind closed doors (33)

Later that night, after Jema had finished feeding baby Sam and tucked him into his crib, she returned to her room and stood beneath the soothing warmth of the shower. As the water cascaded over her, she couldn't shake off Madame's cutting words—they stung more than the news of Jacob's passing.

To someone unfamiliar with profound loss, her anguish over the thought of leaving a child who wasn't hers and a mansion she'd grown too attached to might seem trivial. But for Jema, it was more than that. She was weary of loss, exhausted from rebuilding her life only to have it crumble like the Tower of Babel, destroyed by invisible forces.

Perhaps she was a descendant of those ancient builders, destined to labor tirelessly from foundation to peak, only to witness her creations crumble on the day of rest. Her life felt cursed—nothing she cherished seemed to last. Her parents, Jacob, her unborn child, and now baby Sam—all taken from her, leaving her to grapple with unanswered questions.

The weight of this relentless sorrow was too much for any one person to bear. She clasped her trembling arm, determined not to succumb to tears even as the scalding water intensified against her skin. Lost in her anguish, she barely noticed the rising heat, her mind consumed by relentless torment.

If only she had been in the car with her parents that day, if only she had persuaded Jacob to stay home that fateful night, and if only she hadn't carelessly applied cream on the flooded bathroom floor, knowing the consequences all too well. The haunting memory of her anguish, lying in a pool of blood on that wet floor, flashed vividly through Jema's mind, eliciting a shuddering cry as she collapsed in the shower.

Overwhelmed with regret, self-disgust, and desperation, Jema tore at the air as she wept beneath the torrent of water, reopening old wounds.

Once she had composed herself, Jema tidied up and dressed comfortably for dinner, wearing a pink robe over a matching singlet and shorts, her hair pulled up into a casual bun. The anticipation of Martha's cooking made her stomach rumble eagerly.

"Mmm, t-his is delicious," Jema exclaimed between bites, her mouth full of food. Madame Evana sneered in response and resumed eating quietly. Jema paid little mind to her; the woman was never one for happiness anyway.

"I had someone track Fiona after she left and found out she'd left the country." Madame Evana announced. A thin line of frown marked the extra wrinkles on her face.

"What?" Martha stopped midway with her spoon poised. "That sounds suspicious," she remarked.

"A girl who was paid such a low salary doesn't just wake up one day, quit her job, and hop on a flight to Santorini."

"S-Santorini? The famous vacation spot?" Martha responded, clearly astonished.

Madame Evana nodded. "She's clearly hiding something. When she first came to me, she was just a local girl desperate for work at the mansion. She claimed she'd heard we pay better than anywhere else in town and that she was willing to do anything for as long as I needed her." Throughout her explanation, Madame Evana's gaze remained fixed on Jema, subtly reminding her of her place and the assistance she had received when she had nothing.

"So it's obvious the money means a lot to her—more than anything."

"Then why leave?... Are you absolutely certain she didn't meet some wealthy Prince Charming with a heart of gold who swept her off her feet and persuaded her to give up gardening?" Martha mused wistfully.

Jema scoffed. "That's impossible,"

"Is it?!" Madame asked, her expression filled with disgust. "I recall someone else who once believed in such a Cinderella story. It's the worst delusion one could have."