Who lives like this?
The past three days had established a pattern. Senator Brandt left early—sometimes before June was even awake—and came home late, often after Lila was already in bed. June had seen her twice since that first dinner: once in passing on Thursday morning, when Senator Brandt had paused just long enough to hand her a credit card for household expenses and explain that the PIN was Lila’s birthday, and once on Friday evening, when the front door had opened at nearly ten o’clock, and the senator had snuck by the living room where June sat reading. She had said a quiet hi, excused being home so late, and then climbed the stairs to check on a sleeping daughter.
So June and Lila had fallen into their own rhythm. Breakfast together, then quiet activities—reading, drawing, the walks around the neighborhood. Lunch, then more quiet. Dinner, just the two of them, at the big kitchen table that felt too empty with only two place settings. June cooked every night, partly because it was something to do and partly because the alternative was more takeout containers joining the graveyard in the refrigerator.
She’d made a grocery list the night before, and now she pulled it from her pocket and added a few more items: olive oil, and something green that wasn’t wilted lettuce. The credit card Senator Brandt had given her felt strange in her wallet, like borrowed authority. She’d used it once so far, for milk and bread and eggs, and had saved the receipt as she’d been asked.
“Miss Hollis?”
June turned to find Lila hovering in the kitchen doorway, already dressed in a striped t-shirt and denim shorts, her dark hair pulled back in the same lopsided braid she’d worn all week. She was clutching her otter book in her arms.
“Good morning, Lila. Did you sleep okay?”
“Yes.” Lila’s eyes moved to the grocery list in June’s hand. “What are you doing?”
“Making a list of things we need from the store. I thought maybe you could come with me, help me pick out some stuff for dinner this week. If you want.”
Lila considered this with her usual gravity. “Mom doesn’t usually let me go to the grocery store. She says I take too long looking at things.”
June was surprised the senator went to the store at all. “Well, I like looking at things. So we can take as long as we want.” She folded the list and tucked it back into her pocket. “Have you had breakfast yet?”
“No.”
“Well, what would you like? I could make scrambled eggs, or pancakes—”
“I’ll have cereal, please.”
June cocked her head to the side. ”Cereal? Okay.” She pulled down the cereal from the shelf. While Lila could make it herself, June wanted the child to know that she didn’t have to.
Lila slid onto a chair, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Is Mom at work?”
“Yes, she left early.” The part where it was Saturday didn’t seem to matter. The senator had left a note, a piece of paper held in place by a magnet shaped like the state of Oregon on the refrigerator. “She said she’d be back for dinner.”
The handwriting on the note was precise, almost architectural:Constituent meeting in Salem. Back by 6. Call if you need anything. — M.B.
June truly hoped that the note was for her rather than Lila, because it was completely lacking in the ‘I love you’ department, and the ‘have a good day, sweetie’ department. Just facts, efficiently delivered.
And if it wasn’t for Lila, then the senator needed to learn to leave her child notes too.
But that wasn’t June’s place to say. She was the nanny, not the family therapist. Her job was to keep Lila fed and entertained and safe, not to fix whatever was broken between mother and daughter.
“Okay,” she said, keeping her voice bright. “I’m in the mood for pancakes, so even though you prefer cereal, how about we make some before we go shopping? Real ones, not from a box. I can teach you how to flip them if you want.”
Lila’s expression flickered—interest, maybe, or just uncertainty. “I’ve never made pancakes before.”
“Then it’s definitely time you learned.”
The grocery store trip took two hours, which was about an hour and forty minutes longer than necessary.
June didn’t mind; it wasn’t like they were in a hurry. She pushed the cart through the aisles while Lila walked beside her, occasionally reaching out to touch things on the shelves—a box of animal crackers, a jar of honey shaped like a bear, a bag of rainbow sprinkles that she stared at for a full thirty seconds before moving on.
“You can put things in the cart, you know,” June said. “If you want something.”
“But I don’t need anything.”
“Needing and wanting are different things. Sometimes it’s okay to want stuff just because it makes you happy.”
Lila looked up at her with those too-old eyes. “Mom says we shouldn’t buy things we don’t need. It’s wasteful.”
