CJ snorted. “She rhymed all of her instructions.”
“That was her system,” I said.
“She tried to make us clean the nursery with choreography,” Billie muttered.
I paused. “We don’t have a nursery.”
Bianca waved her hands dramatically. “That was part of the issue.”
CJ leaned back on his hands, grin spreading. “Nanny Franny McFine was fun.”
“Nanny Franny McFine lasted four days,” I said. “But I will admit that’s the best nickname you’ve come up with for one of our nannies. Ten points for that.”
Billie smiled and wiggled her fingers. “She had pizzazz.”
I scoffed. “She used my silk tie to rescue you from the dumbwaiter.”
“I was doing an investigation, Daddy.”
“You were inside the literal wall.”
“It was an immersive experience.” She smiled, obviously proud of herself.
I rubbed my jaw, trying not to smile and wondering how my five-year-old knew whatimmersivemeant.
Now that I thought of it, my children had come up with many impressive nicknames for their nannies. They were all toointelligent for their own good, and they’d inherited that attribute from their mom.
There had been Nanny DoubtPhee, who’d arrived with excellent references and left with a twitch under one eye. Marie Von Fire, who’d claimed she could manage any household because she’d once worked for a duke. And, of course, there was Alice. She had no nickname.
Just Alice.
No surname. No references. No explanation other than she loved kids and promised to treat them like her own. I had been desperate. She lasted one afternoon, took nothing with her but a half-eaten granola bar, and texted me three days later:I hope you find peace.
I never responded because what did one say to that?
“Maybe,” CJ said carefully, “we’re simply not nanny-compatible.”
“You’re children,” I said. “Not software. You need supervision.”
“We supervise each other,” CJ said.
I should have been firmer. I knew that.
There was a version of me, maybe the version that had existed before the house got too quiet when it had once been loud, who would have known what to say. Who would have taken the food away, sat them down, explained respect and consequences, made a plan, and followed through.
But that man felt far away.
This version of me watched CJ nudge extra ginger onto Bianca’s plate because he knew she liked it, watched Bianca wipe saucefrom Billie’s chin without being asked, watched Billie lean her small body against my side while chewing. All I wanted was one evening where nobody kept looking at the empty chair at the table.
So, I let them have floor dinner.
I let them order from three different restaurants and tell me a wildly inaccurate retelling of the flour disaster in which the ceiling fan, the HVAC system, and a “morally corrupt” bag of all-purpose flour were all equally at fault.
I also let Billie eat cheesecake with a spoon directly from the box.
After dinner, we played a board game that ended when CJ persuaded Billie to trade all her fake money for “future dragon rights.” Bianca objected on ethical grounds, but only after calculating whether she could profit from the dragon market herself. Then we watched half of a movie, paused it so Billie could ask whether ghosts had bones, restarted it, paused again because Bianca needed to point out the historical inaccuracies, and finally gave up when CJ suggested we build a blanket fort instead.
By the time I looked at the clock, it was far too late. The responsible-parent part of my brain stirred weakly.
