That morning, sunlight shone through the tall windows of the Whitaker estate as I arranged fresh lilies on the hallway table.
Mr. Whitaker always wanted flowers in the house, and without him, the mansion seemed painfully empty. I had started working for him nearly two decades earlier, when he was already a widower. Somewhere along the way, we had
become an unusual family of two. When my daughter died, he sat quietly next to me on the kitchen counter. He didn’t offer me advice or empty comfort. He simply stayed
