She runs off. Leaving me alone in the kitchen with Rosa.
“She doesn’t like me,” I say flatly.
Rosa sighs. “She doesn’t like anyone who isn’t Isotta.”
“Great. That’s super comforting.”
“Give it time.” Rosa starts wiping down the counters. “She’s protective. That’s all.”
Protective. Right.
More like territorial.
I help Ben pack her bag. Make sure she has her lunch. Do the school run with Jag.
But the whole time I’m thinking about Nonna’s face. The way she looked at me.
Like I’m trying to replace someone irreplaceable.
Like I’m aninterloper.
Like I have no business being here.
When I get back to the house, I head straight to Ben’s bathroom. Open the cabinet. Pull out a notecard and pen from my bag.
I write down everything. Every product we used. The techniques. The order. The wide-tooth comb. The silk pillowcase. The pineapple method.
At the bottom I add:Sulfate-free. Fragrance-light. No parabens. Ask Jess if you have questions.
Then I tape it inside the cabinet door.
Because this isn’t about me. It’s about Ben.
And if the in-laws want to hate me for being here, fine.
Let them.
But I’m going to do my job.
I’m going to take care of this kid.
Come hell or high water.
When you realize you’re not just the nanny. You’re the replacement. And everyone’s watching to see if you screw it up.
I close the cabinet. Stare at my reflection in the mirror.
“You’ve got this,” I tell myself.
I don’t quite believe it.
11
Marco
The rooftop is my space. Always has been.
Up here I can breathe. No cameras except the perimeter ones. No staff hovering. Just the planters with the cherry tomatoes climbing their cages, the rosemary gone woody and wild, a few late-season strawberries, and Isotta’s lemon tree in one corner.
