Page 19 of Secret Heir

Morning comes too soon and not soon enough.

I hear Daniel stirring in his room and go to check on him. He’s sitting up in bed, clutching his rabbit, looking small and lost in the big room.

“Morning, Danny boy.” I sit on the edge of his bed and smooth his hair back. It’s sticking up in all directions. “How’d you sleep?”

“Okay.” He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Mama, I’m hungry.”

My stomach twists. Of course he is. He barely ate yesterday except for those sandwiches on the plane, and that was hours ago. Growing boys need food, need calories⁠—

“We’ll have breakfast soon,” I promise, even though I have no idea how that’s supposed to work when we’re locked in. Didn’t Maksim say I could push a button if I needed anything? “I’m sure someone will⁠—”

Daniel is already getting up, heading for his hoodie that I’d hung in the closet last night. He reaches into the pockets and pulls out the sandwiches he’d hoarded on the plane. They’re squashed now and probably not great, but he unwraps one carefully and holds it out to me.

“Here, Mama. You can have this one.”

The world tilts.

He’s offering me food. His food.

The food he hoarded because he’s learned—through months and years of not having enough—that meals aren’t guaranteed and you take what you can get when you can get it.

And he’s giving it to me because he thinks I might be hungry too. Somewhere along the way, my seven-year-old son learned to sacrifice his own needs for mine.

“Baby, no.” I push his hand back gently, my throat tight. “That’s yours. You eat it.”

“But you need breakfast too.” His voice is matter of fact, his eyes searching mine. “We have to share.”

Share. Because there isn’t enough for both of us and he’s learned that’s how we survive.

I’ve tried so hard to shield him from our poverty and make it seem normal, like everyone lived the way we did.

I’ve always made sure he had a plate of food, even if mine was smaller. I’ve always insisted he eat first and take what he needed.

But he’s not stupid. He’s seen me skip meals. I’ve made excuses about not being hungry that he’s not believed. He’s seen me pretend there was enough when there wasn’t.

And now he’s hoarding food and offering me half of it because he thinks that’s what he’s supposed to do. I’ve failed him so completely. My son has learned survival skills a child should never need.

“Daniel.” I pull him into my arms, this small, too-thin boy who deserves so much better than what I’ve given him, and swallow the lump in my throat. Tears burn my eyes. “I promise, there will be enough food today. For both of us. You don’t have to share your sandwich.”

“Are you sure?” He pulls back to look at me, and the uncertainty in his gray eyes breaks my heart.

“I’m sure.” I kiss his forehead. “Go ahead and eat. I’ll wait for breakfast.”

He does, watching me the whole time like he’s afraid I’ll faint from hunger. He’s learned that adults lie about being okay when they’re not.

I’ve taught him that. I’ve taught my son not to trust promises about having enough.

The shame sits in my stomach like lead.

We’re still in the sitting room—Daniel quietly eating his squashed sandwich, me pretending I’m fine—when I hear footsteps in the hallway. A key turns in the lock, and the door swings open.

Maksim walks in pushing a cart loaded with enough food for a small army.

I realize I haven’t really looked at him yet. Not properly. Last night was chaos and fear, and on the plane I was too focused on Daniel to pay attention to anything else. But now, in the morning light streaming through the windows, I see him clearly for the first time in eight years.

He’s changed.

The boy I knew—and yes, at thirty-two he was still young, and had softness around the edges—is gone.