Sure, I could have the nanny take care of her twenty-four seven. It’s not like I don’t have the money.
But I don’t want my daughter to grow up without every knowing her father.
The phone buzzes again.
Then again.
“Daddy, your phone.”
“I know,piccola. It can wait.”
But it keeps buzzing. Three more times in quick succession. That’s not Valentina’s style. She respects the dad blocks.
Something’s wrong.
I stand and cross to the counter. Two missed calls. Three texts. All from Matilda.
My stomach drops.
Matilda’s been Ben’s nanny for eight months. Competent. Professional. Good with the bedtime routine. Ben likes her, which is the only metric that matters. I pay her well. Better than well. Top of market plus benefits.
I open the messages.
Mr. Fiore,I hope this message finds you well.
I’m writing to let you know that today will be my last day.
I’m so grateful for the time with Ben.
What the actual fuck.
My jaw clenches. I read it again. Three sentences. Clean. Polite. Utterly insufficient.
I glance at Ben. She’s eating her pasta, oblivious. Rosa’s at the stove, humming something in Italian.
I step into the pantry and close the door. The space is narrow. Shelves of dry goods pressing in on both sides. I call Matilda.
She answers on the second ring. “Mr. Fiore.”
“What’s going on?” My voice comes out harder than I intend. I dial it back. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes. I’m sorry for the short notice.”
“Short notice? Matilda, it’s Wednesday morning. You’re scheduled for the nextthree weeks.”
“I know. And I’m truly sorry. But I have to move on.”
Move on. Like this is a coffee shop job. Like my daughter isn’t going to ask where she is tonight at dinner.
“Tell me what I can do to keep you.” I’m already running numbers. “Listen, I’ll double your salary. Effective immediately.”
She laughs. “That’s very generous, but it’s not about money.”
“Then what is it about?”
“I received an inheritance. A significant one. I don’t need to work anymore. Ever again.”
An inheritance.
