Maximiliam Portman POV
I’ve stitched broken bones, stopped hearts from failing, and brought people back from the edge of death. But nothing — nothing — is as exhausting as coming home to my daughter.
The door slams before I can even greet her. “Malia,” I call out, setting my briefcase down. “Don’t slam the door.”
She yells back, “Then stop coming home so late!”
It’s always like this. Every conversation turns into a war. I exhale, loosening my tie. “I had surgery. You know that.”
“You always have surgery,” she snaps, appearing from the hallway with crossed arms. “Maybe you should just live there instead of pretending you have a family.”
I stare at her — that sharp, spoiled glare that mirrors mine. “Watch your tone.”
“Why? It’s not like you care enough to listen.”
“Malia.” My voice is cold, clipped. “That’s enough.”
She rolls her eyes and mutters, “You’re not even a real dad.”
The silence that follows is thick and ugly. I could tell her how much I try, how hard it is to balance everything — but I know she won’t hear it. She’s too angry. Maybe she has every right to be.
I don’t argue. I just walk past her and head upstairs. Sometimes retreat is quieter than regret.
The new babysitter arrives the next day. I don’t smile. “You’ll quit,” I tell her immediately. “They all do.”
She blinks. “Good morning to you too, Doctor.”
“You’ve read the contract. Double pay, a house to stay in, full support.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then you’re also aware my daughter is... difficult.”
She gives a small, confident smile. “I’ve dealt with worse.”
“Unlikely,” I mutter, signing the papers. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”
Two days later, Malia is screaming. From the kitchen, I hear the babysitter trying to calm her down.
“I said I’m not eating this!” Malia shouts, shoving her plate away. “You’re not my mom!”
I step in, tone sharp. “Enough.”
Malia glares at me. “Of course you’d defend her. You don’t even know what I like anymore!”
“That’s because you never let me talk to you,” I reply evenly.
“You never try hard enough!”
The babysitter glances between us, uneasy. “Let’s just take a breath—”
“Stay out of it,” Malia snaps.
“Don’t talk to her like that,” I say firmly. “She’s trying to help.”
“Why don’t you try helping for once?”
My patience thins. “Go to your room.”
“Gladly.” She storms off, slamming the door so hard a frame rattles on the wall.
The babysitter sighs. “She’s... spirited.”
“That’s one word for it.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You can quit tomorrow if you want. I won’t hold it against you.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not quitting.”
“You’ll change your mind.”
She looks at me, calm and steady. “No. I don’t give up that easily.”
Weeks pass. Somehow, she doesn’t leave.
Malia still gives her hell — pranks, attitude, silent treatment — yet every night I see them at least trying to coexist. I keep my distance, watching quietly.
One night, I come home early. They’re on the couch, Malia leaning slightly closer as the babysitter reads aloud. For a second, she almost looks… happy. Until she notices me.
“Oh, look who decided to come home before midnight,” she says coldly.
I don’t respond to the jab. “You did your homework?”
“Why? So you can pretend you care?”
My jaw tightens. “Enough.”
“Or what? You’ll hire another babysitter?”
The babysitter puts a hand on her shoulder. “Malia—”
“No,” I cut in quietly. “Let her finish.”
She doesn’t. Instead, she storms upstairs again, her door slamming like thunder.
The babysitter sighs. “She’s hurting, you know.”
I look at her, voice steady but sharp. “You think I don’t know that?”
“Then act like you do.”
The words sting — because she’s right. I glance toward the stairs, then back at her. “You talk too freely.”
“You listen too little,” she answers calmly.
Something in me almost — almost — softens. “You’re braver than you should be.”
“Or maybe I just care enough not to be scared,” she says, turning away to clean up the mess.