“Can we make extra?” Emma asks. “For Mommy when she comes home?”
“Sure, kiddo. We can make a whole extra batch.”
The doorbell chimes, a sharp, two-note interruption.
Emma’s head snaps up. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Patricia. Remember? The lady coming to visit.”
Her face clouds. “The new nanny.”
“Maybe. We’ll see.”
“I don’t want a new nanny.”
“I know, Em. But we need to meet her anyway, okay? Be polite.”
Emma crosses her arms, her small body tensing. “Whatever.”
I wipe my hands on a dish towel, the familiar dread coiling in my gut.Please, I think, a silent prayer to no one in particular.Let this one be different.
When I open it, there’s a woman standing there who looks about my age, around her early thirties, and nice enough at first glance. She’s smiling—bright, wide, with very white teeth—and holds out her hand immediately.
“Dr. Roussos? I’m Patricia Henley. It’s so nice to meet you.”
Her handshake is firm. She’s blonde, her hair tucked behind her ears, wearing khaki pants and a navy blazer over a white blouse. Professional. Put-together. An outfit someone wears when they want to make a good impression.
“Leo, please. Come in, come in.” I step aside and she walks into the apartment, glancing around politely. “We were just making breakfast. Hope you don’t mind the mess.”
“Not at all! It smells wonderful.” Her voice is bright, modulated.
Emma has retreated to the couch, a silent observer. Patricia approaches her not with a bend, but a graceful sink to one knee, bringing herself to Emma’s eye level. “You must be Emma. I’m Patricia. It’s so lovely to meet you.”
Emma studies her, a small judge holding court. After a deliberate pause, she offers a quiet, “Hi.”
“Your dad says you’re four. That’s a magnificent age. What’s your very favorite thing to do?”
Emma considers, her brow furrowing with the weight of the question. “I like to build fairy houses with sticks. And I have a microscope for looking at bugs.”
Patricia’s smile doesn’t falter, though a flicker in her eyes suggests this was not the answer she expected. “How inventive! Do you have a favorite bug?”
“Ladybugs. But only the red ones with exactly seven spots. The ones with more are imposters.”
“A ladybug connoisseur! I admire that.”
I watch the interaction, a little impressed. Patricia’s good with kids—or at least good at talking to them. She’s warm without being overbearing, patient without being condescending. Emma’s shy but she’s engaging, which is more than I can say for the last three interviews.
“Why don’t we sit?” I gesture to the couch and Patricia takes a seat while Emma scoots closer to me, still watching her carefully.
“So,” I say, “remind me how long you worked for your last family?”
“Oh, yes.” Patricia reaches into her purse and pulls out a manila envelope, handing it to me. “My resume and references. I was with the Castellano family for four years—wonderful people, they relocated to Toronto. Prior to that, three years with the Morrison family, and I also taught for two years at a Montessori preschool in Park Slope.”
I scan the documents. The entries are flawless: CPR/First Aid certified, coursework in Early Childhood Development, references that sing unanimous praises. It is, on paper, impeccable.
Emma leans against my side, still watching Patricia but less guarded now.
“Your experience is impressive,” I say. “I need consistency. Weekdays, roughly eight to six. Occasional nights or weekends if research demands it. Light household management—laundry, tidying, simple meal prep for Emma. School drop-offs and pick-ups.”
