Instead, I found Emma sitting on a high stool, her face covered in powdered sugar.

Mrs. Higgins was feeding her a warm raspberry tart, her usual stern face melted into a soft smile.

“She has her father’s eyes, doesn’t she?” Mrs. Higgins asked quietly, not looking up.

“Please don’t tell Margaret,” I begged, my hands trembling against my apron. “I had no one else to watch her.”

Before Mrs. Higgins could answer, the pantry door swung open.

Margaret Bell stood in the doorway, her clipboard clutched against her dark gray uniform.

Her eyes swept over the powdered sugar on the floor, then settled on Emma.

The silence in the kitchen was deafening.

“Claire,” Margaret said, her voice dry and hard. “What is the meaning of this?”

I stepped between Margaret and my daughter, my voice cracking. “It’s my fault. I will leave immediately.”

Margaret walked forward, her sensible black shoes clicking against the tile.

She looked at Emma, who was holding out a piece of her tart.

“For you,” Emma said, her voice sweet and innocent. “Eat.”

Margaret stared at the sticky pastry, then at the child’s sticky fingers.