“Come on,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Mrs. Hendricks is probably making dinner. I think I smell her famous mac and cheese.”
Maisie unbuckles herself and climbs out of the car, the family tree clutched in her hand. She doesn’t look convinced.
Neither am I.
Inside, Maisie kicks off her boots without untying them, a habit I’ve given up fighting. They land in a heap by the door, slowly forming a puddle of melted slush on the mat.
And in the kitchen, I find that Mrs. Hendricks is, in fact, making mac and cheese, which was entirely a lucky guess. But it’s the from-scratch kind, with the breadcrumb topping Maisie loves. The kitchen smells like butter and comfort, and for a second, I let myself pretend everything is fine.
“There’s my girl!” Mrs. Hendricks wipes her hands on her apron and bends down to Maisie’s level. She’s sixty-three, gray-haired, soft in all the ways that matter. She’s been with us for two years, ever since the last nanny quit because my travel schedule was “incompatible with work-life balance.” Which,fair. “How was school?”
“Fine,” Maisie says, which is her answer for everything.
“Just fine? Nothing exciting?”
Maisie shrugs and heads for the living room, the family tree disappearing into her backpack. Mrs. Hendricks and I exchange a look.
“Rough day?” she asks quietly.
“Family tree project.”
“Ah.” She nods, understanding immediately. “Poor thing.”
I grab a water bottle from the fridge, mostly to have something to do with my hands. “She’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out.”
“Speaking of figuring things out...” Mrs. Hendricks pauses, and I feel the shift in the air before she even continues. “My daughter called this morning. The baby’s due in three weeks, but the doctor thinks it might come early. She’s been having contractions.”
I set the water bottle down. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. But I might need to fly down to Florida sooner than I thought. Maybe in a week or two.” She hesitates. “And I’m not sure how long I’ll need to stay. First grandchild, you know. She’s nervous, and her husband works long hours, and...”
“Of course.” I hear myself saying the words, calm and reasonable, while my brain short-circuits, running through every possible scenario. “Family comes first. You should be there.”
“I hate to leave you in a lurch. I know the season is—”
“We’ll figure it out,” I say again.
Mrs. Hendricks nods, but her expression tells me she hears what I’m not saying.We’ll figure it outisn’t a plan. It’s a prayer.
I have no backup childcare. My mom lives in Quebec and can fly down for emergencies, but she can’t stay indefinitely—she’s got her own life, her own job. Sienna is... not an option. Even if I wanted to ask her, which I don’t, she made it clear a long time ago that she’s not interested in being a mother more than once or twice a year when it’s convenient for her Instagram aesthetic.
“I can ask around,” Mrs. Hendricks offers. “I know a few women from church who do childcare. Good people.”
“That would be great. Thank you.”
She pats my arm, maternal and kind, and goes back to the mac and cheese. I stand there for a minute, staring at nothing, trying to figure out how I’m supposed to hold all of this together.
Injured shoulder. Playoff push. Six-year-old who needs stability more than anything. And now the one reliable thing in our routine is about to disappear.
We’ll figure it out.
Right.
• • •
Bedtime takes an hour.
Bath, pajamas, teeth brushing, three books (because Maisie negotiates like a tiny lawyer and I’m too tired to fight her down to two), and finally lights out. I sit on the edge of her bed while she burrows under the covers, stuffed elephant tucked under her chin.
