Marisol Vega, the Carrington family’s housekeeper for nearly seven years.
Marisol had come to Chicago from Albuquerque in her early twenties. She worked hard, spoke little about herself, and carried the calm steadiness of someone who had already seen enough life to know that panic rarely improves a difficult situation.
Ava adored her.
While doctors and consultants filled the house with quiet conversations about treatment schedules, Marisol remained the person Ava confided in.
They talked in the kitchen while cookies cooled on racks. They sat together in the sunroom watching boats on the lake. Sometimes they simply listened to music and laughed about stories Ava invented.
Nathaniel noticed this bond but never thought deeply about it.
His attention was somewhere else entirely.
For weeks he buried himself in research, consultations, and logistical planning that made him feel useful. His phone rarely left his hand. Medical documents filled his desk.
He believed he was fighting for his daughter.
But slowly, almost invisibly, he began disappearing from her life.
One evening Marisol found him halfway down the sweeping staircase that curved through the center of the apartment. The lights were low. The city outside the windows glittered like distant stars.
Nathaniel sat on the steps staring at nothing.
He looked older than she had ever seen him.
“You should eat something,” Marisol said gently.
He let out a quiet laugh that held no humor.
“How exactly does a man eat while his child is dying?”
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