Nicholas
From my second-floor study window, I had a clear view of the north garden.
Usually, this hour of the morning was reserved for Noah’s structured cognitive therapy. According to the strict schedule compiled by Dr. Vance and my assistant, Noah was supposed to be indoors, completing color-association flashcards and practicing sensory coordination tasks.
Instead, through the clear glass, I saw my six-year-old son kneeling in the green grass, his knees covered in fresh dirt.
Beside him sat Faith Porter. She had spread a checkered blanket over the lawn, entirely ignoring the leather-bound daily schedule binder resting on a nearby garden bench. Her right arm remained tightly bound in her bulky white cast, but she didn't let it slow her down. With her left hand, she was holding a set o
