Page 26 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

Yes. We're professionals who have never been in a plane bathroom together. That isn’t something that’s ever happened.

He nods once, leaning back slightly in his chair.

“You came recommended,” he says. “The agency doesn’t make adjustments to the schedule without reason.”

Oh, okay. That’s… good, very good.

“Yes,” I say, nodding a little too eagerly. “I’ve worked with them before. Not this branch, obviously, but similar placements. I have strong references, long-term experience, and I…” I stop myself before I start rambling. “I’m very adaptable.”

Understatement of the century.

He studies me with an intensity that's a little unsettling, like I’m a problem he’s already halfway to solving, and he’s just waiting to confirm the final variables. It’s the kind of focus that suggests he doesn’t miss anything, which is not ideal, given our shared history.

“Tell me about your previous positions,” he says.

“I’ve worked with several families over the last few years,” I begin, settling into what I know. “Mostly long-term placements. Children between three and eight, structured routines, school schedules, meal prep, emotional support, behavior management…”

As I talk, everything shifts.

The panic loosens its grip, easing back just enough for me to breathe properly again. This, I know how to do. This is my space. Structured, familiar, entirely mine in a way nothing else about today has been.

I explain how I handle transitions, how I manage difficult behavior without escalation, and how I build trust with children who don’t immediately want a stranger in their world.

And he listens.

He’s actually paying attention, asking questions that are specific, precise, and just a little too perceptive.

Which is both reassuring and terrifying.

“Routine consistency,” he says at one point. “How do you maintain it without rigidity?”

I tilt my head slightly.

“By understanding why the routine exists in the first place,” I reply. “It’s not about control; it’s about predictability. Kids need to know what comes next. But that doesn’t mean you can’t adapt when needed. It just means you communicate the change.”

His gaze sharpens, just slightly.

Okay, good. We like that, like being competent in front of the man we accidentally had a life-altering experience with at thirty thousand feet.

“Oliver,” he says suddenly, glancing down.

Down.

Under the desk.

I follow his gaze just as there’s movement. A small shift, the scrape of something plastic, and then, to my complete surprise, a child climbs out like he’s been quietly living there this entire time.

Oh.

Right. Yes. That makes sense. This is a nanny interview. Of course there's a child. There's always a child. The child is, in fact, the entire point.

He straightens, completely unbothered, holding what appears to be a toy plane, and looks at me with wide, observant eyes like he’s been watching this whole interaction unfold and forming opinions about it.

“Hi,” I say, softening immediately, shifting in my chair to face him properly now that I'm aware of his existence. “You must be Oliver.”

He studies me with an intensity that feels wildly disproportionate for someone his size.

Seriously, like a tiny, highly judgmental professor who’s about to decide whether I pass or fail as a human being.