“Oh—” I hesitated. “I’m… just the nanny.”
The word felt wrong the second it left my mouth. Smaller than it should have been.
The woman smiled anyway. “Well, she clearly adores you.”
I glanced back through the glass, where Harper caught my eye again and grinned like she’d been looking for me the whole time.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “She does.”
And sitting there, watching her dance, I realized how easy it had been to step into this—and how hard it would be to pretend it didn’t matter.
Because for a little while, it felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
At home, days blurred into something warm and steady. Homework became games: math problems turned into monsters to defeat, spelling words twisted into ridiculous sentences. When she got frustrated, she leaned into me, closeness instinctive. Dinner was mostly takeout—my cooking skills questionable—but even that became ours: her curiosity, hercommentary, the way she wrinkled her nose at sushi before settling on teriyaki chicken like it was a major decision.
“You’re good at this,” she said once.
“At homework?” I teased.
“At… everything.”
With Cami’s kids, I had always been part of their lives, woven in from the beginning. With Harper, it was different.
She was choosing me.
She trusted me with her moods, excitement, and frustration. She reached for me without hesitation, and each time, something in me answered before I could second-guess it. She didn’t need me to be perfect.
She just needed me to show up.
And somehow, that felt like more than enough.
I grew up in a house where everything was measured—grades, appearance, outcomes. Love was present, but always tied to achievement, to following rules. I learned to excel.
I didn’t learn how to simply exist.
But here, sitting on the living room floor surrounded by glitter glue and unfinished drawings, I felt something loosen. The quiet joy of making a mess without consequence. Of laughing too loudly. Of being enough without earning it.
“I think I’m just happy,” I said one afternoon when Harper asked why I’d been smiling.
She studied me like that was something worth considering. “Me too.”
Later, we FaceTimed Logan.
Harper took over immediately, narrating everything with wild gestures and no sense of pacing. I stayed just out of frame, watching the way he leaned in, his attention absolute, his voice softening for her in a way that felt instinctive.
He didn’t rush her.
He stayed.
And when she ran off to grab a snack, he lingered.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“She’s great,” I said. “Really great.”
Relief flickered across his face. “Thanks for stickin’ to the routine.”
I smiled. “Mostly.”
