Chapter 92: The Baby He Found 2

"Richard." Director Agatha’s voice cut through the silence. "Explain yourself."

Her gaze swept over her son. Edward’s face was bruised, his lower lip swollen from the punch. It made him look even more ugly.

Her expression darkened.

Richard drew a slow breath, fighting to keep his temper in check.

"Ma’am Agatha," he said through gritted teeth, "he stomped on Isobel’s rattle."

His voice trembled.

"It broke."

Agatha barely glanced at the shattered toy lying on the floor.

"It’s only a rattle," she said dismissively. "Children break toys every day. Was it really worth starting a fight over?"

Richard stared at the broken pieces. It wasn’t just a toy. He had scrubbed cars until his hands blistered to earn enough money to buy it.

Before he could answer, Agatha had already made her decision.

"You will pull the weeds in the vegetable garden as punishment. All twelve plots."

Her tone left no room for argument.

"And you will not have dinner until every last weed is gone."

Richard lowered his head. His jaw tightened so hard it hurt. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

It would take him four hours to complete the task. By the time he was done, Isobel would be asleep already.

He wanted to protest. To tell her she wasn’t being fair.

But arguing with the director would only earn him a harsher punishment.

Just then, a small voice spoke up.

"But Ma’am Agatha..."

Everyone turned toward seven-year-old Selene. The little girl wearing an old dress that was too big for her, hugged a worn teddy bear to her chest, her large eyes filled with worry.

"Edward didn’t only break the rattle." She pointed at the chubby boy. "He stole Richard’s coin bank too."

The room fell silent.

For the first time, Agatha’s expression faltered. Her eyes shifted to Edward.

"Edward," she said, her voice noticeably gentler than it had been with Richard. "Is that true?"

The difference was subtle. But every older child in the orphanage noticed it.

Edward’s eyes darted around before he quickly shook his head.

"No, Mom. They’re lying."

From behind his back, he produced a tin coin bank wrapped in colorful paper.

"This one’s mine."

He held it out proudly.

"See? My name is written on it."

Agatha accepted the coin bank and examined it carefully.

Sure enough... across the colored paper, written in thick black marker, was the name:

Edward.

She looked at it for only a moment before returning it to her son.

"It does have your name on it."

Just like that... the matter was settled.

Richard slowly closed his eyes. His hands curled into trembling fists.

Edward had been quick.

While everyone was distracted after the fight, he had wrapped Richard’s coin bank in colored paper and scribbled his own name across it.

When Richard looked up again, Agatha froze.

Something in the boy’s eyes made Agatha’s heart skip a beat.

There was no anger, no resentment, no desperate plea to be believed... only a quiet, crushing disappointment.

For the briefest moment, guilt stirred within her.

"Ma’am," Richard said softly, his voice steady despite the lump in his throat.

"If you peel off the paper..."

He met her gaze without lowering his own.

"...you’ll find the words For Isobel’s Birthday engraved on the metal underneath."

The room fell silent.

Agatha hesitated.

Then, with obvious reluctance, she slipped a fingernail beneath the edge of the colored paper and slowly peeled it away.

A collective gasp rippled through the dormitory.

Etched into the metal, in uneven letters carved by a child’s unsteady hands, were the words:

For Isobel’s Birthday.

No ink could have survived beneath the paper. No one could have written those words moments ago. The engraving had been there all along.

Agatha’s fingers tightened around the coin bank. Her face stiffened. She had judged too quickly.

More importantly...

She had done so in front of every child and caretaker in the room.

For several long seconds, no one spoke. Finally, she drew herself up and regained the stern composure expected of the orphanage director.

"Edward," she said coldly, "you will take the punishment I assigned to Richard."

The chubby boy stared at her in disbelief.

"But, Mom—"

"Not another word."

Edward’s face turned pale.

Agatha handed the coin bank back to Richard without offering an apology. Then she turned and walked toward the door.

Just before stepping outside, she glanced back. Her eyes lingered on Richard for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

There was something different about the boy.

He had not cried. He had not begged. He had simply trusted the truth to speak for itself.

Agatha narrowed her eyes ever so slightly.

For the first time...

She began to see Richard as someone she could not afford to underestimate.

...

One afternoon, Mama Rena found Richard sitting by the nursery window, turning a small wooden rattle over in his hands. The bright paint was chipped in places, but to him, it was the prettiest toy in the shop.

She smiled helplessly.

"Richard, you’re spending too much on Isobel," she said gently. "You should be saving your money. One day you’ll need it for school."

"Yes, Mama Rena," Richard answered obediently.

And he truly meant it. But the next time he earned a handful of coins... He found himself standing in front of another gift shop.

He simply couldn’t resist.

Every time Isobel reached for him with her tiny hands, every time she babbled happily in a language only babies understood, every time she rewarded him with that radiant smile... His heart melted.

Her eyes sparkled like stars scattered across the night sky, so full of innocence and wonder that he wanted nothing more than to see them light up with joy.

If a small toy could make her smile...

Then every blister on his hands was worth it.

As Isobel’s first birthday drew near, Richard made himself a promise.

He wouldn’t buy her just another little toy. He would give her the nicest present he could possibly afford.

For weeks, he woke before dawn to finish his chores before the other children stirred. After school, he ran errands for the neighbors—hauling sacks of rice, delivering groceries, even sweeping front yards.

By the time he returned to the orphanage each evening, his shoulders ached, his legs felt like lead, and his palms were covered with fresh blisters.

Still...

One by one, every coin he earned disappeared into the large tin coin bank hidden beneath his bed.

Across its metal surface, painstakingly engraved by his own unsteady hands, were three simple words:

For Isobel’s Birthday.