The rain fell harder.
Richard looked at her, really looked at her this time.
Her uniform was worn thin. The seams near her sleeves were frayed. Her shoes were old, the soles barely holding together.
And yet she stood straight.
Respectful.
Careful.
Like she had learned to take up as little space as possible.
“Come inside,” he said.
She shook her head immediately. “No, sir, I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” he replied, more sharply than he intended.
She flinched slightly at his tone.
That small reaction hit him harder than anything else.
“Please,” he added, softer this time.
After a moment, she nodded.
Inside, the warmth wrapped around them instantly. The contrast was almost painful. Maria stood near the entrance, unsure where to go, water dripping from her clothes onto the floor.
“Sit,” Richard said, gesturing to the kitchen table.
She hesitated before obeying.
He took her lunchbox gently from her hands and opened it.
Inside was a small portion of rice.
And nothing else.
No vegetables.
No meat.
Just plain rice.
Richard’s stomach tightened.
“Is this what you eat every day?” he asked.
Maria looked down. “It’s enough.”
That answer wasn’t honest.
But it was practiced.
“How long have you been working here?” he asked.
“Almost two years.”
Two years.
And he had never noticed.
Not once.
Richard leaned against the counter, trying to understand the feeling rising in his chest. It wasn’t anger. Not exactly.
It was something worse.
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Guilt.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked quietly.
Maria blinked, confused. “Say what?”
“That you needed more. That you—” He stopped himself.
She shook her head. “I have a job. That’s already more than I had before.”
Before.
The word lingered.
“What happened before?” he asked.
Maria hesitated.
Then, slowly, she spoke.
“My son is sick.”
The room seemed to shrink.
Richard straightened. “What kind of sick?”
She swallowed. “His lungs. The doctors say he needs treatment. Regular treatment.”
“And you’re paying for it?”
She nodded.
“That’s why…” she gestured slightly toward the lunchbox, “…I save where I can.”
Richard felt something break inside him.
While he had been signing deals worth millions without thinking, this woman had been sitting in the rain, eating plain rice, trying to keep her child alive.
“How old is he?” Richard asked.
“Seven.”
Seven.
The same age Richard had been when his own mother died.
A memory he had buried under years of ambition and distraction suddenly resurfaced.
The feeling of being small.
Helpless.
Forgotten.
He looked at Maria again, and for the first time, he didn’t see a maid.
He saw a mother.
Fighting a battle no one else could see.
“Where is he now?” Richard asked.
“At home,” she said. “With a neighbor.”
Richard made a decision before he even realized he had.
“Take me to him.”
Maria looked up, startled. “Sir?”
“Take me to your son.”
She hesitated, unsure if she had heard correctly.
“Please,” he said.
Something in his voice had changed.
And she could hear it.
They drove through streets Richard had never bothered to notice before. The city looked different from this angle—smaller, harsher, more real.