Chapter 3
Rika
Six months later
I'm late, again. And I hate myself for it.
It's a quarter past seven as I step out of my car. Every muscle in my body is screaming at me, and my stomach feels like it’s about to digest its own lining. Gross image, I know.
Ugh. I need to catch up on sleep this weekend.
My wings ache with that deep, bone-tired fatigue that comes from holding myself rigid for hours.
I've been in back-to-back meetings all day, fielding questions about quarterly taxes and business deductions while simultaneously checking my phone every five minutes to make sure the house hasn't burned down.
So far, so good.
I grab my work bag from the passenger seat and mentally prepare for the evening.
I need to help Matthew with his math homework, probe Zoe on her essay on the Civil War, prep tomorrow's lunches, answer the seventeen emails currently sitting in my inbox, and somehow squeeze in twenty minutes of meditation like my yoga-instructor mother keeps nagging me about.
Spoiler: that last one's not happening.
The moment I open the car door, I know something is wrong.
The noise coming from my house is barely muffled by the heavy oak front door.
Voices are raised inside, all talking over each other in a cacophony that makes my stomach clench with dread.
I hurry up the walkway, my short legs moving fast, my heels clicking sharply against the pavement.
My wings flap behind me, helping me move faster.
I'm not even on the front porch when the door opens to reveal Margaret Thornburn, my nanny.
The stern-faced orc woman that came to me with glowing recommendations on her firm yet loving discipline methods comes storming out of the house, clutching her purse in front of her like a battle shield.
Her sensible cardigan is askew, the pale-green skin of her face is flushed an alarming shade of red, and her yellow eyes are blazing with fury.
But that's not what makes me stop dead in my tracks, my brain drawing a blank.
Her iron-gray hair, normally styled in a military-tight bun at her nape, is shorn in what could generously be qualified as a bob. If a bob haircut involved pieces of tape stuck to it?
Oh, no. Please don't let it be another prank.
"Mrs. Everdeen!" Margaret's voice is shrill enough to make me wince. "I am done. Do you hear me? DONE!"
I stop at the bottom of the porch steps, my mind racing to catch up.
"What happened?"
"Your daughter is a menace!" Margaret gestures wildly with her purse, waving it in the air toward the open door. "An absolute menace! I have never, in my thirty years of childcare—never—been treated with such blatant disrespect and… and… violence!"
My pulse spikes as my eyes catch on a piece of tape flapping in the wind like a white flag behind the nanny's head.
"Violence? What are you talking about?"
Margaret thrusts her head forward, displaying her hair, clearly butchered with scissors and pieces of tape still stuck on it in places.
"Packing tape and super glue!" Margaret hisses. "Your daughter rigged a trap with packing tape across the hallway and then proceeded to pretend Matthew was injured to lure me across it!"
I close my eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of my nose.
Packing tape. Super glue. An injured nanny.
Like I needed this day to get any worse.
"I will be warning about you on every nanny placement site I can find," Margaret continues, her voice rising again. "That child is out of control, and frankly, Mrs. Everdeen, I question your parenting if you think this behavior is acceptable!"
The words hit hard. My jaw tightens. My exhaustion evaporates, replaced by a cold, brittle anger.
"I don't think it's acceptable," I say, keeping my tone in check. "Which is why I told you about Zoe's past behavior before offering you the position. You said you could handle it."
"Handle that future delinquent?" Margaret's laugh is sharp and humorless. "I'm a nanny, not a miracle worker! That girl needs structure and consequences. None of which she's getting!"
My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag. I want to scream. I want to defend Zoe. I want to ground Zoe until she grows gray hair. I want to collapse on the porch and cry.
Instead, I straighten my shoulders and meet my future ex-nanny's furious gaze.
"Then I suppose we're both better off ending this arrangement."
Margaret blinks, clearly taken aback by my calmness. She'd probably expected begging or groveling. But I'm done groveling. I'm simply too exhausted for this.
"Fine," Margaret snaps. She adjusts her purse strap and turns on her heel. "You'll receive my invoice by the end of the week and it will include a hairdressing appointment."
She marches down the walkway, her footsteps heavy and deliberate.
I watch her go, my heart pounding, my hands trembling.
Nanny number five. Gone. Shit.
The car door slams. The engine starts. My nanny drives away without looking back.
I stand alone on the porch, the November wind tugging at my hair, and fight the urge to scream into the void.
A few minutes later, I walk into the house and carefully close the front door behind me.
The house is as quiet as a tomb. Matthew is curled up on the couch, watching me.
His pale-green wings are tucked behind his back and his purple eyes are red-rimmed.
He's clutching Mr. Gears, his favorite stuffed robot, and he looks up at me with an expression of pure misery.
"Mom—" he starts.
"Not now, Matthew." I lift my hand, silencing him.
My tone is sharper than I intended, and Matthew flinches.
My heart clenches with guilt, but I don't have the bandwidth to soften right now.
Because Zoe is standing in the middle of the dining room with her arms crossed, her blue hair wild around her face, her expression defiant and defensive all at once.
"Why did you do it?" I ask, my voice dangerously calm.
"Do what?" She has the gall to lift her chin, all prickly teenage-girl attitude out.
Like I need this. Like any of us needs this.
"Don't play dumb with me, Zoe." I grind between my teeth. "Why did you set a trap to hurt Margaret?"
"I didn't hurt anyone." Zoe's jaw tightens and her wings snap shut. "Margaret's fine. She's exaggerating."
"Fine?!" My voice cracks like a whip. "She had to cut off her hair! You assaulted her, Zoe!"
"It was just a prank!"
"It was a deliberate attempt to harm another person!" I drop my bag on the floor with a heavy thud. I know I'm raising my voice and I should stop, but I just can't. "Do you have any idea how serious this is? She's going to make it impossible for me to find another nanny!"
"Good!" Zoe shouts back, her blue eyes flashing, her wings opening and closing behind her like a dragonfly. "I don't want another nanny!"
"Well, that's too damn bad, because I have to work!" This time, I don't even try to lower my voice. This is too much. "And I need someone to take care of you and your brother while I'm gone. I can't do this all by myself."
"You're always working!" Zoe's voice cracks. "That's all you ever do! Work, work, work! Maybe if you weren't at the office all the time, Dad wouldn't have—"
"Don't." I hold up a hand, my chest tightening. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."
But she does. Of course she does.
"Maybe if you'd been home more, Dad wouldn't have left!"
The words explode out of her like she's been holding them in for months.
Which she has. I knew full well this moment was going to happen.
I knew I was going to be the bad guy at some point and I know that Zoe doesn't really mean it.
She's just lashing out because she's hurt and I'm the only safe person she can direct her anger at.
It still hurts like a bitch.
"It’s like you don’t even want to be here with us!" Zoe finishes, her voice breaking at the end.
My breath catches. The accusation lands like a slap to the face, and for a moment, I can't speak.
Because isn't that what Mitchell said? Isn't that exactly what he threw in my face when I found out about the affair?
Not just the affair he had with Jasmine, but the one before that.
And the one before that. That I'm to blame because I'm always working.
And a part of me believes it. A small, defeated part of me believes it's my fault.
"That's not fair," I manage, my voice shaking.
"It's true though, isn't it?" Zoe's face is flushed, tears streaming down her cheeks now. "You'd rather hire some stranger to watch us than actually be our mom!"
"I am trying to provide for this family!" My voice rises to match hers despite my best efforts to keep my tone in check. "I am trying to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table."
"All of this is your fault. I hate you, you know that?"
The words hang in the air like a bomb.
I freeze.
Matthew makes a small, choked sound from the couch. Zoe's face crumples immediately, regret flooding her features, but she doesn't take it back.
I feel like I've been punched in the chest. My breath comes short and shallow, and for a moment, I can't speak.
When I finally find my voice, it sounds like someone else's, not mine. Someone who's defeated and cold. Someone I don't want to be.
"Go to your room."
"Mom—"
"Now, Zoe."
Zoe's wings drop and brush the floor. She looks like she wants to say something, maybe apologize, maybe double down, but instead, she turns and runs up the stairs. Her bedroom door slams hard enough to rattle the walls.
I stand in the middle of the living room, trembling.
Matthew's small voice breaks the silence.
"Mom?"
I turn to him, and my heart shatters all over again. He's crying. Not loud, dramatic sobs, but quiet, hiccupping tears he's trying to hide behind Mr. Gears.
"Oh, honey." I cross over to the couch and sink down beside him, pulling him into my arms.
Matthew burrows into me, his small body shaking.
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
"You didn't do anything wrong, baby."
"Zoe didn't mean it. She's just so angry."
I close my eyes, stroking his soft green hair. "I know."
"Are you angry, too?"
The question is so earnest, so innocent, that I have to swallow hard against the lump in my throat.
"Sometimes," I admit quietly. "But I'm okay. We're all going to be okay."
Matthew pulls back just enough to look up at me with those wide purple eyes. "Do you promise?"
I cup his face gently, brushing away his tears with my thumbs. "I promise."
He nods and hugs me again, and I hold him close, breathing in the scent of his strawberry shampoo and letting myself have this one moment of comfort.
Because I know it won't last.
Then I pick up my phone to call the only person who still answers my calls for help when it comes to Zoe and Matthew. The one person who would never give up on us.
Sometimes, even a mom needs a mom hug. So I call mine.