Clementine was in the back, buckling the girls into their carseats. I sat in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead, my hands flexed tightly on the steering wheel. I glanced down at my phone on the console. My temper settled.
Yes. That would be nice. I could share the moment myself and take the wind right out of Vanessa’s stupid little sails.
I picked up the phone and pressed record, right as Clementine was getting into the passenger seat. “Girls,” I said, smiling into the lit-up screen, “what did you get at ourvery specialtrip to Target today?”
Jessa and Junebug squealed in response:
“A stuffie!”
“Sparkly lotion!”
“What about you, Clementine?”
I angled the camera so it featured me, grinning, and Clementine’s form in the passenger seat. Clementine had gotten a new shade of nail polish. But she didn’t reply. She was facing away from me. “Clementine,what did you get at—”
“Stop filming me.”
I froze. My face flooded with heat.
She’d never done that before. Not once.
I glanced quickly in the rearview mirror: Jessa was playing with a bracelet on Junebug’s wrist, Junebug babbling quietly about the new stuffed animal. I pressed the button to stop recording and set the phone face down in my lap. My hands were shaking. I threw the car into drive and we rolled toward the parking lot exit.
“I didn’t know you were unhappy being filmed, Clementine,” I said as we rolled onto the quiet mountain highway toward home. “I’ve always told you to tell me if you felt that way. Haven’t I?”
I hadn’t.
Clementine rested her forehead against the window. “I’m telling you now.”
“Fair enough,” I said. None of the girls were looking at me anymore, and yet for some reason I was smiling.Stop it,I told myself sharply.Stop smiling like that.But I couldn’t. I didn’t.
When it comes to consent, do you think children are capableof—
“Oh, please.”
Pause.
Can I finish my question?
Longer pause.
“Yes. Of course.”
When it comes to consent and the use of children’s likenesses on public social mediaaccounts—
“Actually, I need to take a quick break to use the restroom. Would that be all right?”
Later that night, Caleb walked into our bedroom and said, “I spoke to my dad again today.”
“Oh?” I was reading my emails, mass-deleting spam messages, while the nannies got the children ready for bed. At that moment, a new email pinged my inbox. It was from Shannon. The subject line read:formal resignation
I paused. Stared at the subject line for a few moments. Then I clicked on it.
Natalie,
I’m writing to let you know that I won’t be working for you any longer. Between what happened over the summer and all the nightmares, it’s clear that this job isn’t good for my mental health any longer. I’ve got a bus ticket for later tonight. I don’t need a ride; Nanny Aimee is going to drive me to the station.
For what it’s worth: I don’t think you’re a bad person. I think you’re just confused.
