Daphne’s POV
Nina's voice cuts through breakfast conversation with the casual observation of a five-year-old who hasn't learned that some truths are uncomfortable.
"Miss Maya seems sad lately."
I pause, fork halfway to my mouth. Xander glances up from his coffee. Margaret stops wiping the counter.
"What do you mean, sweetheart?" I keep my voice gentle. Curious rather than concerned.
"She's different." Nina pokes at her eggs. "Quieter. Not smiling as much. Like when Grandma Eleanor was mean to you and you pretended to be okay but your eyes were sad."
The comparison lands uncomfortably. I exchange a look with Xander across the table.
Lisa sets down her juice with precise care. "I saw Miss Maya crying in the garden yesterday. She was sitting on the bench by the roses. She wiped her eyes seven times in four minutes. That's 1.75 times per minute."
Of course Lisa counted. Of course she tracked the exact metrics of someone else's grief.
"Maybe she was just having a bad day," Xander offers. "Everyone has bad days sometimes."
"She keeps staring at us weird too." Nina's face scrunches up, trying to articulate something she doesn't fully understand.
"Like she's trying to remember our faces. Like she's saying goodbye."
The observation lodges in my chest uncomfortably. Sits there like a stone I can't dislodge.
After breakfast, after the twins leave for school with Margaret, I find myself thinking about Maya.
About the way she's been different lately. More withdrawn. Less present even when she's in the same room.
I assumed it was stress. The approaching delivery has everyone on edge. Thirty-four weeks feels simultaneously like we've made it and like we're running out of time. The tension affects everyone.
But Nina's words echo: Like she's saying goodbye.
I needed to see her. After everything Maya has done for us—the evidence against Eleanor that saved my position, the countless hours caring for the twins, the quiet strength she's shown through every crisis—I couldn't let her suffer alone.
I find Maya in the garden that afternoon, sitting on the bench near the roses where Lisa apparently witnessed her crying yesterday. Her face is composed—professionally neutral, the mask she wears when she's working.
But her eyes are red-rimmed. Raw. Like she's been crying recently and hasn't quite recovered.
I sit beside her without asking permission. The bench is small, intimate. Our shoulders nearly touch.
"The twins said you've been sad lately." I keep my voice gentle. Non-accusatory. "Are you okay?"
Maya's response comes too quickly. "I'm fine. Just emotional, I guess. Hope's arrival feels close now. Everything feels heavy."
The lie is smooth but I hear it anyway. Years of navigating corporate politics have taught me to recognize when someone is deflecting.
"Maya." I wait until she meets my eyes. "Talk to me. What's really going on?"
Her composure cracks slightly. Tears well up that she tries to blink away. "It's nothing. I'm just... overwhelmed lately. Everything with the pregnancy and Hope's complications and watching you fight so hard for her. It's a lot."
I understand that feeling intimately. The weight of caring about outcomes you can't control. The exhaustion of sustained fear. The way anticipation becomes its own kind of burden.
I take her hand. Squeeze gently. "I want to thank you. For everything."
She looks at me sharply. Surprised.
"The evidence against Eleanor—that saved my position. Saved me from being pushed out when I was too vulnerable to fight back effectively."
I pause, choosing words carefully. "I don't know how you got it all. I'm still not entirely sure I want to know. But it saved me. You saved me."
Maya's eyes fill with tears that spill over before she can stop them.
"And beyond that," I continue, "you've been here through all the pregnancy complications. You've cared about the twins with genuine warmth. You've been exactly what this family needed when we needed it most. You've become more than an assistant, Maya. You're family."
The word family breaks something in her. Her face crumples. Tears stream down her cheeks unchecked.
Her whole body starts shaking with sobs she's clearly been holding back for too long.
I pull her into a hug. This young woman who's become so important to us over these months.
Whose competence and care have made impossible days slightly more bearable.
"It's okay." I stroke her hair, murmuring comfort. "Hope is going to be okay. I know it's scary. I know caring about us means you're invested in this outcome and that's terrifying when the odds aren't great. But we're going to make it. All of us."
Maya sobs harder. Her hands clutch at my shoulders like I'm the only thing keeping her upright.
"Crying is normal when you care about people," I tell her gently. "You're allowed to be scared for us. You're allowed to feel whatever you're feeling. You don't have to be professional all the time."
She nods against my shoulder but doesn't speak. Just shakes with grief that seems disproportionate to the situation but makes sense given how much stress we've all been under.
I hold her. Let her cry. Think about how much pressure she's been carrying too—watching us navigate impossible choices, supporting the twins through their own fears, managing household logistics while everyone else falls apart.
"Thank you for caring so much," I whisper into her hair. "Thank you for being here. For staying through all of this."
Her grip tightens. Like she's holding on for dear life. Like I'm offering her something she desperately needs but doesn't deserve.
We sit like that for several minutes. Me holding her while she cries. The garden quiet around us except for the sound of her grief and my murmured comfort.
Eventually her sobs slow. Quiet into shaky breathing. She pulls back, wiping her face with embarrassed efficiency.
"I'm sorry." Her voice is wrecked. "That was unprofessional."
"That was human." I keep my hand on her shoulder. "And you're allowed to be human, Maya. Especially now. Especially with us."
She nods. Won't meet my eyes. Like she's ashamed of breaking down or ashamed of something else I can't identify.
"Why don't you take the rest of the day off?" I suggest. "Go rest. Process whatever you're feeling. We'll be fine without you for an afternoon."
"No." The refusal comes sharp. Almost panicked. "I mean—I'm okay. I'd rather work. Rather stay busy."
I study her face. See something I can't quite name. Something that feels like more than anticipatory grief about Hope's fragile life. Something that looks dangerously like guilt.
But I dismiss it. Chalk it up to the emotional weight we're all carrying. The way sustained crisis makes everything feel heavier, more complicated, harder to process.
"Okay." I squeeze her shoulder one more time. "But if you need to talk, I'm here. Always."
She nods. Tries to smile but fails completely.
I leave her sitting on the bench, face turned toward the roses, shoulders still shaking slightly with aftershocks of grief I think I understand but probably don't.
Nina was right. Maya is saying goodbye. I just don't know what she's saying goodbye to yet.