Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
K aitlyn adjusted her camera settings, watching through the lens as residents moved through their daily routines. A mother helping her daughter with homework. Two women sorting donations. A toddler building a tower of blocks only to knock it down with delighted giggles.
"Just pretend I'm not here," she called out, though she knew it was impossible. The camera changed things, made people conscious of themselves in ways they usually weren't. She'd learned that during her influencer days, when every moment had to be perfectly staged.
Elena appeared at her elbow, clipboard in hand. "How's it going?"
"Good. I've got some nice candid shots for the website. Shows the real Paradise Harbor House, you know?"
"And Carla?"
Kaitlyn lowered her camera. "Still won't agree to be photographed. Says she doesn't want to risk him finding them through social media." She didn't need to specify which 'him' she meant. "I get it. Some people shouldn't be able to find you."
“That’s not unusual. Besides, I’m only interested in exterior shots at this point. We have to protect the people who stay here.”
Kaitlyn nodded. “Yes, I understand.”
Her phone buzzed in her pocket—another call from her mother. She ignored it, just like she'd been ignoring the social media notification that had popped up earlier: Sarah Miller just posted a new photo album: Family Beach Day!
She hadn't looked, but she didn't need to. Moments like these made her regret creating her fake social media accounts.
Through her lens, she watched Carla move through the common room, efficient and wary. Christina followed close behind, carrying Jack while Dominic clutched a toy truck to his chest. They moved like a single unit, each attuned to the others' needs.
"Maybe we could just photograph the back of their heads?" Elena suggested. "Or focus on their hands doing activities? Something that shows their story without showing their faces?"
Before Kaitlyn could respond, Carla approached, her posture rigid. "I've been thinking about your website project."
"Oh?" Kaitlyn lowered her camera again, careful to point it away.
"Christina wants to draw pictures of Paradise Harbor House instead. She thought maybe you could use those. Show the place through a child's eyes."
Something in Kaitlyn's chest tightened. Here was Carla, trying to protect her children while still letting them be seen. Still letting them exist in the world on their own terms.
"That's…that's actually perfect," Kaitlyn said, her voice thick. "Way better than my photos."
Christina beamed, already reaching for her crayons. Dominic perked up too, truck forgotten as he scrambled for paper.
"Mama, can I draw our tree?" he asked, referring to the one visible through the window. It had become their special spot, where Carla would read to them in the evenings.
"Of course, baby." Carla's voice softened the way it only did with her children. "Draw whatever makes you happy."
Kaitlyn watched through her camera as the children settled at the craft table, their faces intent with concentration.
She caught the moment Dominic stuck his tongue out while coloring, the way Christina helped him pick just the right shade of green. Even Jack contributed, adding enthusiastic scribbles to his siblings' works.
These were the moments that mattered. Not the posed shots, not the carefully curated glimpses of perfect lives. Just real people finding their way together, one crayon stroke at a time.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, she turned it off completely.
Later that afternoon, Kaitlyn sat cross-legged on the floor beside Christina, watching the girl add careful details to her drawing. The paper was filled with colorful figures—residents, volunteers, even the little kitten bouncing across the page in vibrant crayon strokes.
"That's Miss Elena," Christina explained, pointing to a figure with a clipboard. "And that's Dominic and Jack, and Mama." She hesitated, then added in a smaller voice, "I didn't draw my dad. Mama says we don't have to think about him if we don't want to."
Kaitlyn's hand stilled on her camera. "Sometimes that's easier, isn't it? Not thinking about people who aren't here anymore?"
"Do you have someone you don't think about too?"
The question, innocent as it was, hit like a physical blow. Before Kaitlyn could respond, Carla appeared with Jack on her hip.
"Time for lunch, sweetheart," she said, but her eyes lingered on Kaitlyn's face. "You've been drawing for hours."
"Can I finish?" Christina held up her picture. "I want to add the flowers by the porch. The yellow ones that smell nice."
"Jasmine," Kaitlyn supplied, grateful for the distraction. "They bloom at night. My mother used to grow them."
Carla settled beside them, adjusting Jack in her lap. "You don't talk about your mother much."
"Not much to say." Kaitlyn focused on her camera settings, though she hadn't taken a photo in hours. "Sometimes the people closest to us are the ones we understand the least."
"Mama," Dominic called from across the room, "look what I made!" He held up another drawing—their tree, but with birds nesting in its branches. Safe. Protected. Everything a should be.
Kaitlyn's phone lay silent in her pocket, powered off against the weight of unanswered calls and unopened messages. On her camera's memory card, dozens of photos captured life at Paradise Harbor House—all carefully framed to tell stories of hope and healing. None showing the photographer's own fractured reflection.
"You're good with them," Carla said quietly as Christina added the last flower to her masterpiece. "Patient. Like you understand."
"Maybe I do." Kaitlyn managed a smile that felt only slightly cracked. "Sometimes the best way to heal is to help others do the same.”
Later, as she uploaded the children's artwork to the Paradise Harbor House website, Kaitlyn found herself pausing on Christina's drawing. The figures stood together, holding hands, their crayon smiles bright against the paper. A family not perfect, but present. Real in all the ways that mattered.
Kaitlyn sat on a porch rocking chair, her camera beside her, reviewing the day's photos on her laptop.
The children's artwork had already been scanned and uploaded, but she found herself returning to one image—a candid shot she'd caught of Carla reading to her children under their tree.
The photo was taken from behind, showing only silhouettes against the setting sun. No faces, as promised, but the story was there in every line: the way Carla's shoulders curved protectively around her children, how Christina leaned into her mother's side while helping Dominic follow along with the words, little Jack's hands reaching for the pages. A family holding on to each other in the face of everything that had tried to pull them apart.
The screen of her phone lit up beside her—not a call this time, but an email notification. The preview showed her mother's name and a subject line that made her stomach clench: "Found some old family photos…"
She closed the laptop with more force than necessary, startling a gecko that had been watching from the railing.
"Careful with that," a voice said behind her. "Technology doesn't like rough handling."
Elena stood in the doorway, two mugs of tea sending steam into the cooling air. She handed one to Kaitlyn before settling beside her on another rocking chair.
"Long day," Elena observed, blowing on her tea. "But productive. The children's artwork idea was inspired. Shows exactly what Paradise Harbor House means to the people who matter most."
"It was Carla's suggestion." Kaitlyn wrapped her hands around the warm mug, anchoring herself in the present moment. "She's…she's trying so hard to give them stability. To let them still be children despite everything."
"Sometimes that's the hardest part," Elena said carefully. "Letting people hold on to their joy when the world seems determined to take it away."
She paused, studying Kaitlyn's profile in the fading light. "You understand that better than most, I think."
Kaitlyn's fingers tightened on the mug. "What do you mean?"
"Just that you have a way with our families. Especially the children. You see what they need—whether it's space to draw, or permission not to smile for a camera, or…" She trailed off as voices drifted through the screen door behind them.
Carla appeared, Dominic half-asleep against her shoulder. "He wanted to say goodnight," she explained. "And thank you for putting his tree picture on the computer."
"Of course," Kaitlyn said, managing a smile that felt almost real. "He's quite the artist."
“It’s got birds in it," Dominic mumbled sleepily. "'Like a real family tree."
Something sharp and cold twisted in Kaitlyn's chest. Family trees. Branches that split and divided, roots that ran deeper than anyone could see. She stood abruptly, gathering her equipment. "I should go. It's getting late."
"Kaitlyn," Elena called as she reached the gate. "Remember what I said about joy? Sometimes we have to choose it, even when it's hard. Even when it feels impossible."
Kaitlyn nodded and twirled the ring on her right hand. “What do you do when impossible doesn’t feel like a strong enough word.”
Elena smiled. “Float…you just float.”
The walk home was longer than usual, each step weighted with unspoken words. Through windows and over fences, Kaitlyn caught glimpses of other families ending their day—dinners being shared, children being tucked in, the comfortable rhythms of lives unfolding together.
Her phone buzzed again. Another email from her mother: "Please, sweetheart. We need to talk about what you found…"
But how could they talk about it? How could they discuss the photos she'd discovered, the sister she'd never known, the life her father had built while leaving his first family behind? How could any conversation bridge that kind of divide?
The bungalow was dark when she arrived, her aunts still at their evening shift at Margarita Max's. Ernest dozed on the porch railing, one eye cracking open at her approach. She envied him sometimes—his simple world of food and sunshine, unmarred by complicated family histories.
Inside, she put her laptop on the table and opened it. The screen glowed with the Paradise Harbor House website draft.
Christina's drawing smiled up at her—all those figures holding hands, connected by crayon lines and childish hope. Below it, Dominic's tree spread its branches wide, offering shelter to any bird that needed it.
She opened a new browser tab, fingers hovering over the keyboard. One click would take her to the profile she checked compulsively, show her another family's moments—birthdays and graduations, father-daughter dances and family vacations. All the memories that could have been hers in another life, another version of her story.
Instead, she clicked back to the Paradise Harbor House page. These were the stories she needed to tell—of families rebuilding, of hope taking root in unexpected places, of people finding their way forward despite the past's long shadows.
Tomorrow there would be more photos to take, more moments to capture. More chances to help others document their journeys while keeping her own carefully hidden. For now, she let the children's artwork fill her screen, their simple truths drowning out the complicated ones that threatened to overflow.
Through the window, she could see the stars emerging over Key West, each one a pinpoint of light in the gathering dark.
Somewhere out there, another family was ending their day, another sister was living her life unaware. But here, in this moment, Kaitlyn had her own purpose—helping others find their light, even if her own path remained in shadow.