"I'll hold you to that." She stands, stretches. "And I will make you regret the time off."
They file out one by one until only Maia remains, still typing, lost in whatever digital labyrinth she's navigating with practiced ease.
"Maia," I say. "Can I ask you something?"
She looks up, blinking like someone surfacing from deep water. "Of course."
I choose my words carefully. "I recently met someone who's diabetic. And I want to understand how to help without making it obvious."
Maia's expression softens. She's lived with the condition her whole life. Knows the landscape better than anyone I know.
"Is it a recent diagnosis?" she asks.
"I don't know," I admit. "Could be recent. Could be lifelong. I'm not sure, and asking feels invasive."
She nods slowly, considering. "Usually, people with type 1 have been managing it long enough that it's automatic. They know their patterns, their triggers, what works." She pauses. "But if you want to help without making them feel managed..."
She ticks points off on her fingers, professor-like in her precision.
"First, don't hover. Support quietly. You can't manage it for them, they're the expert on their own body. But you can make it easier for them to make better choices. Keep juice orglucose tabs around. Stock them in common areas. That way if their sugar drops, they don't have to go searching or explain themselves."
I nod, mentally registering the information.
"Second, help keep meals steady. Diabetics need consistent eating patterns. No skipping breakfast, no long gaps between meals, balanced carbs and protein. Maybe plan meals on a schedule so their blood sugar doesn't crash or spike unpredictably."
Her voice is gentle but firm, the tone of someone who's had this conversation before. "Don't make a scene about it. They're probably self-conscious, aware they're different in ways people might see as weakness. Treat it like normal. No pity, no fuss, no hovering. People handle it better when they feel respected, not monitored."
"Thank you," I say, and mean it. "This helps more than you know."
After she leaves, I sit alone in the office, thinking.
I can manage most of what Maia suggested. Keeping juice around is easy enough. Ensuring regular meal times is more complicated but doable.
But healthy, balanced meals? In a house full of men who seem to subsist on takeout, restaurant food, and whatever can be microwaved in under five minutes?
That's going to require reinforcements.
I pull out my phone. Scroll through contacts until I find the name I'm looking for.
Amelia answers on the second ring.
"Victoria!" Her voice is warm, familiar, carrying the particular affection of someone who's known you since childhood. "I was just thinking about you. How are you, darling?"
Amelia. My father's housekeeper for the past eighteen years. The woman who practically raised me, who bandaged scraped knees and taught me how to be strong when the world insisted I be decorative.
"I miss you," I say, and mean it more than I expected to.
"I miss you too,mi niña." The Spanish endearment makes my chest ache. "When will I see you?"
"Soon. Actually, I was hoping you could do me a favor."
"Anything."
I explain what I need. An assortment of meals, healthy, balanced, consistent. Enough variety that it doesn't feel repetitive but structured enough to provide reliable nutrition throughout the week.
There's a pause on the other end. Then Amelia laughs, warm and knowing.
"Did you get tired of that cricket food at Maison Lyra already?"
