Candidate three doesn’t show up at all. I wait forty-five minutes before accepting she’s not coming.
Three interviews. Zero options.
I’m running out of time.
• • •
Wednesday night. I’m making spaghetti—one of four things I can cook without burning—when Maisie wanders into the kitchen.
She’s already in pajamas even though bedtime isn’t for another hour. Stuffed elephant tucked under her arm. She looks small and serious, the way she does when she’s working up to something.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, shadow?”
“Is Mrs. Hendricks really leaving?”
I set down the wooden spoon and crouch to her level. “Yeah, baby. Her daughter had a baby, remember? She needs to go help.”
“Like a grandma.”
“Exactly like a grandma.”
Maisie’s forehead wrinkles. “Will the new nanny be nice?”
“I’m going to find someone great.” The words come out automatically. “I promise.”
But she doesn’t nod and accept it like she usually does. She looks at me with those dark eyes—my eyes, everyone says—and her expression goes careful. Guarded.
“You always promise,” she says.
It’s not an accusation. That’s what kills me. She’s not angry, not hurt—she’s just stating a fact. A statement of how the world works according to Maisie Bishop, age six.
People promise things. Sometimes they keep them. Sometimes they don’t.
Best not to expect too much.
My chest squeezes so tight I can barely breathe.
“Hey.” I put my hands on her shoulders. “Look at me.”
She does.
“I know things have been hard. Your mom not being around, me traveling, people coming and going. I know that’s confusing.”
She watches me with that too-old expression.
“But I’m going to find someone good. Someone nice who’s going to take care of you when I can’t be here. And if the first person doesn’t work out, I’ll keep looking.”
“What if there isn’t a right person?”
The question hits like a cross-check.
She’s not asking about nannies. She’s asking about people. Whether anyone besides me is ever going to show up for her and stay.
I don’t have a good answer. Can’t promise everyone will be reliable. Can’t undo the damage Sienna did by walking out, or the parade of caregivers who’ve come and gone.
All I can do is be here.
