She was efficient. That was good.
“Right. I have three children. Eleven, nine, and five. They attend school during the day, so I need someone in the mornings to help them get ready and see them off, then after school until I get home.”
“What time do you return?”
I hesitated. “Usually seven.”
“Usually?”
“Sometimes later.”
“How much later?”
I looked at my calendar again and felt judged by every block on it. “Eight. Occasionally nine.”
“And their current care?”
“She quit yesterday.”
“Why?”
I rubbed a hand over my face. “There was an incident with flour.”
Another pause. “Flour,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“Was anyone harmed?”
“No.”
“Was it intentional?”
I thought of Billie’s grin. “Yes.”
Winifred laughed. “Creative.”
“That seems to be the consensus,” I said.
“Tell me what else I should know.”
I leaned back in my chair. This was where I usually tried to make us sound normal enough to be acceptable. Three bright, energetic, yet sensitive children, who were adjusting to our new normal. They’ve had some big transitions. They respond well to structure.
All true.
All incomplete.
I looked toward the office door. Through the glass, I could see Billie crawling along the hallway floor now, while Bianca walked beside her, taking notes. CJ stood at the bottom of the stairs narrating something with great solemnity.
“They’re good kids,” I said.
“I didn’t ask if they were good.”
I looked down at my hands. “Their mother died three years ago. They were little. The youngest was only two.” I swallowed. “They’re smart, funny, and extremely loving. They’re also difficult right now. They’ve chased off every nanny I’ve hired. They’re not cruel, but they test people. They push and lie. They make up stories and create weather events with flour. Lady Ferdinand refers to them as little revolutionaries.”
On the other end of the line, the woman said nothing.
I kept going. Honesty became easier when failure was guaranteed.
