“Done,” she announced.
I blinked.
Maria looked helplessly between us.
Sophia placed the brush down and took two steps back.
“Now smile.”
“Why?”
“Because the picture is happy.”
I tried.
The expression felt unfamiliar enough that Sophia frowned.
“No.
A real one.”
That did it.
A laugh escaped me.
It was short, rough, almost embarrassed.
Sophia laughed too.
Maria stared.
I laughed again, and this time I couldn’t stop quickly enough to hide it.
The enormous room changed around the sound.
For once, the echo did not make the mansion feel empty.
It made it feel occupied.
I rubbed my eyes carefully, avoiding the paint.
When I looked back at Maria, her expression had changed from fear to confusion.
“You’re not fired,” I said.
Her lips parted.
“I wasn’t—”
“You thought you were.”
She hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Maria looked at Sophia, then back at me.
“Because this job matters.”
Her answer was simple, but I heard everything underneath it.
Rent.
Food.
Childcare.
Security.
A hundred practical things I rarely had to think about.
“And because,” she added carefully, “you have rules.”
I almost smiled.
“Apparently not about face painting.”
Maria gave a nervous laugh.
Sophia had already returned to her paper.
I watched Maria crouch beside her daughter and quietly explain that even if someone was sleeping, she still needed permission before touching them.
Sophia listened.
Then she looked at me.
“Sorry, Mr.
House Man.”
“Apology accepted.”
She nodded and resumed painting as though the matter were closed.
For her, it was.
For me, it wasn’t.
Later that evening, after Maria and Sophia left, I walked through the mansion without washing my face.
I passed framed architectural drawings, commissioned art, a wine room I barely used, and a dining table long enough to make a family feel like a board meeting.
In the upstairs bathroom, I finally stood before the mirror.
The paint had begun drying at the edges.
The butterfly was uneven.
