She doesn’t answer, still staring at the items. Knowing that she’ll say something eventually, I prepare a pancake for Isaac, the little munchkin immediately tearing into the carbs. When I look back at Riley, her cheeks are wet with tears, a too big spoonful headed toward her mouth.
“Hey—”
Hunter grunts and I turn back to look at him as he shakes his head before gesturing to the hallway. I follow, even more confused than he was, about to ask what’s going on when he speaks first. “Evie used to do that. She’s the only person I know who ate cereal like that. Riley demanded to have it like that every time. The other nannies we’ve had just make it up for her and she usually takes a few bites before leaving it.”
I stare toward the kitchen and from this angle, I can see Riley pouring more milk into her cereal, leaving just enough for when she’s done. A rare curve of her lips flashes on her face and thenit’s gone. “I... I didn’t know.” A shiver runs down my spine at Hunter’s proximity and the fact that we’re standing this close but the hallway is fully lit so I’m not panicking. Not completely.
“She'll warm up," Hunter says, reading my concerned expression. "She's doesn't want to get attached in case you leave. Just be easy on her, okay? And don’t try too hard."
I'm the same way, keeping everyone at arm's length because getting close means risking getting hurt again. Riley and I have more in common than anyone probably realizes. “Yeah, okay. I can do that.”
Hunter throws me a tight smile. “I’ll be working in the study, second door on the left, if you need anything, but... I think you’ll be just fine.” Then he just disappears down the hall, coffee and all. I don’t move until I hear the door shut, my heart in my throat and my nerves on edge.
“You can do this, Amelia,” I tell myself.
Amelia
The morning passes quickly. I help Isaac sound out words in his picture books, nodding and asking questions as he tells me elaborate stories about his truck collection. We do letters and numbers at the kitchen table, and I'm struck by how bright both kids are. Riley tears through chapter books meant for kids two grades older, losing herself in the pages.
I recognize the need to escape into stories because it’s something I’d do. Granted, there were no books. Just me and my imagination.
Grief shows up in small moments throughout the day. Isaac's face falls when he asks a question and adds, "Mama would know." Riley goes quiet sometimes, staring out the window with an expression too old for six years. Both of them watch me carefully and I’m not sure if they’re waiting for me to leave or do something like the previous nanny did.
Riley slipped up once, saying that their last nanny was mean, but she didn’t elaborate. At this point, I’m just trying to do my best and give them the attention they need. By early afternoon, I've gotten Isaac down for a nap on the couch. Riley disappeared upstairs a while ago, telling me that she wanted to grab another book, the house now quiet enough that I can start prepping dinner.
Wyatt didn’t say that making dinner was part of my job but I can only imagine if they work similar jobs to Dylan and Maddox, they won’t have time or they’ll be too tired. Besides, now that I have a purpose? I don’t actually mind putting everything together.
The timer dings on the oven for the lasagna, alerting me that it’s at the right temperature and that’s when I realize I haven't seen Riley in over thirty minutes. Quickly shoving the rest of the ingredients in the pan, I place it in the oven and head upstairs, following the sound of frustrated huffing to the bathroom. Riley is standing in front of the mirror, a brush tangled in her long dark hair, her arm twisted at an awkward angle trying to reach the back, her eyes red-rimmed like she's been fighting tears.
"Would you like some help?" I ask from the doorway.
Riley's jaw sets as she glares at me through the mirror. "What would you know about it?"
"My hair isn't exactly the same texture or as curly as yours, but when it gets wet..." I gesture vaguely. "It's a disaster. Takes a lot of time and patience." Dylan always had the worst time with it, and I hadnopatience. It took a few years after our parentsdied before I learned how to take care of it on my own because I refused to do it without my mother.
Riley huffs but sits down in the chair by the sink, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "I can't reach all of it. My dads don't know what to do, so they just braid it."
"I'm assuming you know how to take care of it?"
"My mom taught me." Riley's voice gets small, barely audible over the bathroom fan. "I just..."
"So teach me."
Riley looks up at me through the mirror, those guarded brown eyes searching my face. She's trying to figure out if I'm serious, if I'm someone she can trust with this piece of her mother. "But you're not going to stay. No one ever stays."
The words hit hard, settling somewhere deep in my chest where all my own fears live. But I don't flinch away from them or try to sugarcoat the truth. "Then use me for as long as I stay, okay? I won't promise you I'll be here forever because I don't want to lie to you. But that doesn't mean I won't be here for as long as I can."
I hold my hand out for the brush, palm up, waiting for her to give in.
Riley hesitates, studying my face in the mirror like she's trying to find the lie hidden somewhere in my expression. Then slowly, almost reluctantly, she hands it over. God, it’s such a small step, but it feels like a leap.
I start at the ends, the way my mom taught me when I was younger, working through the tangles with careful, gentle strokes. Riley winces a few times when I hit a particularly stubborn knot, but she doesn't pull away or complain. I section her hair, patient with each tangle, taking my time because this matters. Because Riley is trusting me with something precious.
"Your mom must have been really good at this," I say quietly, working through another section.
"She was good at everything with hair." Riley's voice is soft, wistful in a way that makes my chest ache. "She used to do mine and then let me practice on hers. Said I was getting really good at French braids."
"Maybe you can teach me those, too."
