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“You’re doing this for them?” My gaze flicked up to meet his.
“I am,” he replied. “But I won’t pretend it’s not also for you.”
There it was—the admission that shattered my last wall of defense. He saw my struggle and stepped in not with grand gestures but with thoughtful precision. A slow breath escaped me as the weight on my shoulders shifted, sharing its burden with someone else for the first time in what felt like forever.
“And what do you get out of it?” My voice was softer now, tinged with curiosity rather than resistance.
“A chance to make things right,” he said simply. “To help where I can.”
The lines between support and self-sufficiency blurred into a gray area where pride became less important than practicality. It was not my place to deny help offered to the whole community.
“Okay,” I whispered. But this wasn’t defeat; it was acceptance that some battles were better fought together.
A hint of a smile touched Cass’s lips as if he knew the significance of my one-word response.
“Thank you,” I added, feeling that gratitude well up inside me like warmth on a cold day.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he replied with a wink. “Wait until you see what we’re going to build here.”
And as he walked away to make arrangements, I realized that maybe this was how Cinderella felt after midnight—when the magic faded but hope lingered on in the form of glass slippers and unexpected allies.
Chapter Twenty-One
Mila
The community center buzzed with a kind of joy that echoed off the freshly painted walls, bouncing through the laughter of children and the grateful smiles of parents. They clustered around the new babysitting service area, a testament to what could be achieved when hearts aligned with purpose. I caught sight of Cass leaning against a doorframe, his gaze scanning the room with an unexpected softness.
“You did this,” I approached him, my voice barely rising above the hum of celebration.
“We did this,” he corrected gently, his eyes finding mine. “You gave them a voice, Mila. I just listened.”
The room swelled with appreciation as people came up to us, their hands extended in thanks—rough palms and delicate fingers alike reaching out to shake ours.
“Ms. Johnson, Mr. Portman,” Mrs. Garcia approached with her two young ones trailing behind her, “I can’t tell you what this means for us.”
Her words were simple but charged with an emotion that filled the space between us. I felt my chest tighten with pride, and for a moment, Cass’s hand on my back felt like the most natural thing in the world.
“Mila, I’ve been giving it some thought,” Cass began. “Your situation, I mean. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate.”
I glanced at him, wary. “I’m managing,” I replied, perhaps too quickly.
He gave me a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No one should have to manage alone.”
Before I could protest, he continued. “I’ve been working on something—a grant. It’s designed to help families like yours without making you feel like you’re taking handouts.”
I frowned, uncertain. “A grant?”
“Yeah.” He leaned against a table laden with snacks for the kids. “It’s meant to support families dealing with medical crises or those who need an extra hand. No strings attached.”
“And what are the criteria?” I asked skeptically.
Cass paused, looking thoughtful. “Well, it would be based on need—things like medical expenses, care for dependents… It’s meant to preserve dignity while offering support.”
The idea was surprisingly well-considered, and it spoke to my deepest fears—the overwhelming medical bills, the possibility of not being there for Chad and Rachel as much as they needed.
“I don’t know…” My voice trailed off as I watched a group of children crowding around Melody, who was showing them how to mix paint colors.
“Mila,” Cass’s voice was gentle now. “This isn’t about pride. It’s about accepting help when you need it—help that you deserve.”
