Reginald spills inside like a small yellow tornado, bringing the smell of sweat, grass, and teenage dragon boy with him. His yellow scales are scuffed with dirt and his green eyes are bright with the kind of manic energy that only comes from a solid two hours of soccer practice.
"Reginald!" I call out with well-practiced authority.
He freezes mid-step, one foot on the stairs.
"Get that smelly stuff off and take a shower before homework." I point up the stairs with my best stern-nanny expression. "And don't forget you have an essay due by the end of the week. Two thousand words on the inclusion of Others in the Maine state legislature. I want citations, I want analysis, and I want proper grammar."
He groans, rolling his eyes so far back in his head, I swear they do the full 360 degrees.
"You're such a hard-ass, Noah."
"That'sMr.Hard-Ass to you."
"Fine." He makes a face, but I can see he's happy I reminded him of the assignment. He has a tendency to forget about these this school year, unlike the previous ones. "I'll start right after my shower."
Then he bolts past me, calling over his shoulder, "Nice tutu, by the way!"
"Thanks! Goes great with the crown!"
His laughter echoes down the hallway as he thunders up the stairs, leaving a trail of grass clippings and the faint smell of dragon smoke in his wake.
I watch him go, and something tightens in my chest.
Six years ago when I took the nanny job for the Jarvis family, Reginald was eight years old and small enough to climb on my shoulders. He followed me everywhere, chattering nonstop about dinosaurs and whether dragons were technically related to dinosaurs. Now he's fourteen, all gangly limbs and teenage attitude, more interested in his friends than hanging out with his nanny.
I don't like watching them grow up.
It makes me worry they won't need me much longer.
And Ineedto be needed.
I push the thought away and head to the kitchen where the girls are already setting up for tea. The table is covered with a plastic tablecloth decorated with cartoon princesses, and Amethyst is carefully arranging cookies on a plate while Raelia pours apple cider into mismatched teacups.
I take my spot at the table right between them and accept the glass of cider Amethyst hands me with exaggerated ceremony.
"Thank you, Lady Amethyst."
She giggles and curtsies, her purple wings flaring slightly. We settle in, cookies and fake tea and laughter filling the kitchen.
I pull out my phone and snap a few pictures: Raelia's gap-toothed smile, Amethyst's scales catching the light, both of them with their crooked crowns and cookie crumbs on their faces. I send the photos to their parents, Derryn and Sharnia.
A few seconds later, my phone buzzes with a string of emojis: hearts, crowns, and a dragon blowing a kiss. I smile and tuck my phone away.
This is my life. This is what I chose.
And I love it.
I'm an only child. I grew up with my grandfather in Saltford Bay after my parents died in a car accident when I was six. Gramps did his best, but the house was always too quiet. Too empty. I used to wish I had siblings, someone to play with, fight with, share secrets with.
Maybe that's why I studied early education in college. I wanted to be around kids, to fill that silence with noise and chaos and life.
But when graduation came and a friend's sister needed emergency childcare coverage, I took the job. Just for a while. Just until I figured things out.
Then I discovered Ilovedit.
Not just the job, but the life. Being part of a family, doing the school runs, the homework help, the cooking, the housework. And the kids! Their friendship drama, their hopes and dreams, their jokes and their heartbreaks. I'm not just their nanny; I am part of the fabric of their daily lives. In a way, I'm hooked into providing the childhood I never got to live.
When that placement ended, I took another one. And another. About halfway through my second placement, Rupert, an eight-year-old, started calling me "manny" as a joke. It stuck.
