I nodded, a little surprised. Nyla wasn’t usually the thoughtful-gesture type unless there was an audience.
“That’s very kind of you,” I said.
She stepped closer, resting her manicured hand lightly on my shoulder.
“And remember,” she added, “Damian’s bedtime is exactly at eight. He gets very agitated if his routine is disrupted. The pediatrician said consistency is crucial for kids with his condition.”
“We’ll stick to his routine,” I promised.
Privately, I wondered how much of Damian’s supposed need for a rigid schedule was real and how much of it was just another way for Nyla to control everything—even from a cruise ship in the Caribbean.
Damian stood beside me on the porch, his small hand tucked trustingly into mine. He wore his favorite dinosaur T-shirt and carried the worn stuffed elephant he’d had since he was two. To anyone passing by on the street, he would have looked exactly like what the reports said: a special-needs child, quiet and withdrawn, dependent on the adults around him to navigate a confusing world.
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