Chapter 5 #3
Patricia’s smile doesn’t falter, though a flicker in her eyes suggests this was not the answer she expected. “How inventive! Do you have a favorite bug?”
“Ladybugs. But only the red ones with exactly seven spots. The ones with more are imposters.”
“A ladybug connoisseur! I admire that.”
I watch the interaction, a little impressed. Patricia’s good with kids—or at least good at talking to them. She’s warm without being overbearing, patient without being condescending. Emma’s shy but she’s engaging, which is more than I can say for the last three interviews.
“Why don’t we sit?” I gesture to the couch and Patricia takes a seat while Emma scoots closer to me, still watching her carefully.
“So,” I say, “remind me how long you worked for your last family?”
“Oh, yes.” Patricia reaches into her purse and pulls out a manila envelope, handing it to me.
“My resume and references. I was with the Castellano family for four years—wonderful people, they relocated to Toronto. Prior to that, three years with the Morrison family, and I also taught for two years at a Montessori preschool in Park Slope.”
I scan the documents. The entries are flawless: CPR/First Aid certified, coursework in Early Childhood Development, references that sing unanimous praises. It is, on paper, impeccable.
Emma leans against my side, still watching Patricia but less guarded now.
“Your experience is impressive,” I say. “I need consistency. Weekdays, roughly eight to six. Occasional nights or weekends if research demands it. Light household management—laundry, tidying, simple meal prep for Emma. School drop-offs and pick-ups.”
“Of course,” she nods, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “Structure and routine are so important for children. I’m very organized. I believe a clean, predictable environment is foundational.”
I nod, scanning the resume again. Everything looks good. Too good, maybe, but I’m trying not to be paranoid.
Emma tugs my sleeve. “Dad, can I put the sprinkles on the pancakes?”
“After we finish talking, bug.”
Patricia turns her calibrated smile to Emma. “Do you enjoy preschool, Emma?”
Emma, sensing a shift in attention, brightens. “We have a turtle named Sheldon. I get to feed him lettuce on Tuesdays. And we have a loft with pillows and I’m the best reader in my class.” The last part is delivered with matter-of-fact pride, not boastfulness.
“That’s wonderful! Reading is a superpower.”
“I know. Dad says it makes my hippocampus grow.”
Patricia’s smile tightens, just at the corners. “How…scientific.”
“And I’m lucky because I get to be in preschool for an extra year since my birthday’s late.” She grins, excited now. “Do you want to guess when my birthday is?”
Patricia laughs. “Can you give me a hint?”
“Okay. Um. It’s the day when everybody goes trick-or-treating!”
“Hmm. That’s a good clue.” Patricia shoots me a playful wink. “Can you give me another one?”
“And you get to wear costumes!”
“Hmm, quite interesting.”
“And there’s lots of candy everywhere and people put scary decorations on their houses with ghosts and skeletons!”
Patricia taps her finger against her chin, pretending to think really hard. Emma’s watching her with wide eyes, practically buzzing with anticipation at the thought that she might have stumped her.
Patricia grins mischievously. “Hmm…is it…it wouldn’t happen to be…Halloween? Would it?”
Emma squeals. “Yes, yes! You got it right!”
“That’s a wonderful birthday!”
“I know! Because I get cake and candy. So it’s like two celebrations.”
“That’s the best. You’re a very lucky girl.”
“I know. Last year I was Ariel from The Little Mermaid and I got SO much candy! Like, a whole bucket full. And Dad let me eat four whole pieces before bed.”
“Four pieces? Wow! Your dad must be really nice.”
Emma looks at me and grins. “He’s okay.”
“Just okay?” I ask, raising a brow.
“You’re pretty good, I guess.”
Patricia laughs, and I can feel myself relaxing slightly. This is going well. Better than well. Emma’s engaged, happy, talking freely. Patricia’s warm and natural and doesn’t seem fazed by any of it.
“Would you like some tea?” I ask Patricia, standing up. “I was just about to make some.”
“That sounds lovely, thank you.”
“Great. I’ll be right back.” I give Emma a quick look—be good—and head to the kitchen.
I’m hoping that if I give them a little more time alone together, Emma will warm up to Patricia even more. Maybe even get excited about the idea of her coming back. That would make this whole transition easier.
Change is hard for kids. Developmentally, they thrive on routine and predictability because their prefrontal cortexes are still developing.
They don’t have the executive function to regulate emotional responses to disruption the way adults do.
Well, theoretically adults do. In practice, most adults are also terrible at handling change.
We’re just better at constructing narratives of control while quietly falling apart.
So I understand Emma’s frustration with all of this.
The rotating cast of babysitters, the constant disruption to her routine, the fact that nothing feels stable right now.
But I’m hoping to find someone who makes the transition feel less jarring.
Someone fun and bright and adaptable who can keep up with Emma’s energy and curiosity.
Patricia seems like all of those things.
She seems like someone who could impose order without crushing spirit, who could meet Emma’s keen curiosity with engaged intelligence.
Through the doorway, I hear the script playing out.
Patricia’s voice, a model of warm inquiry: “And which Barbie is your favorite?” Emma’s reply, enthusiastic but performative, the version of herself she offers to newcomers. It sounds…good. Promising.
When I peek back into the living room, mug in hand, the scene appears transformed.
Emma has closed the physical distance, now nestled on the couch beside Patricia.
She holds The Very Hungry Caterpillar aloft, her small finger tracing the famous glutton’s path.
“…and then he eats through one piece of chocolate cake, and one ice cream cone, and one pickle—”
“A pickle?” Patricia’s voice is a masterpiece of performative shock, pitched perfectly for a four-year-old audience. “After ice cream?”
“I know!” Emma giggles. “That’s why he gets a tummy ache!”
Back at the sink, I scrub the mixing bowl.
The sticky batter clings to the whisk, a glutinous mess.
I focus on the tactile sensation—hot water, the scrape of sponge on steel—to quiet the buzzing thoughts spinning through my head.
When I return with two cups of tea, they’re both laughing.
Emma has turned to the page of the caterpillar’s miraculous transformation and is explaining, with the solemn authority of a tiny professor, the process of metamorphosis.
“See, he builds the cocoon—it’s called a chrysalis—and inside, all his caterpillar parts turn into soup! And then the soup makes the butterfly!”
“That’s incredible,” Patricia says, her laughter smoothing into a tone of polished admiration. She quietly accepts the mug I offer. “Thank you. So, you teach neuroscience, you said?”
“Yes. Memory consolidation during sleep.”
“Oh, fascinating. So how the brain files things away at night?” she asks, taking a polite sip.
“Essentially. We look at the synaptic changes during different sleep stages.”
“That must be incredibly demanding. Juggling the lab, teaching, and single fatherhood.” Her smile is a calibrated blend of sympathy and professional respect. “I don’t know how you do it all.”
“Most days, I don’t,” I admit, the weariness seeping through.
“I’m sure you’re doing better than you think.” She pauses, setting her tea down with deliberate care. Her gaze flicks to Emma, then back to me, her voice dropping into a carefully neutral register. “And Emma’s mother? Is she involved at all, or…?”
The air in the room changes. It’s a subtle shift, a drop in barometric pressure. I feel Emma go rigid beside me, a small statue of sudden tension.
“It’s just the two of us here,” I say, my own voice flattening in response.
“Oh, I see. I didn’t mean to overstep—”
“Her mother is…not presently with us.” It’s the vague, cowardly phrasing I’ve adopted for interviews, a linguistic fig leaf.
Emma’s head snaps up. “She’s not gone, Dad.”
“Em, not now.”
“She’s NOT!” Her voice cracks, getting louder. “You keep saying she’s gone but she’s not! She’s coming back!”
“Emma, we’ve talked about this—”
“No!” She’s off the couch now, fists clenched at her sides. “You keep bringing these ladies here and you want them to be my new mom but you can’t make them be my mom because I ALREADY HAVE ONE!”
“Emma, that is not what this is.” My voice is low, a plea and a warning.
“YES IT IS! SHE’S COMING BACK! SHE’S JUST… SHE’S JUST LOST RIGHT NOW!” The raw, desperate logic of it hangs in the air, more heartbreaking than any tantrum.
Patricia leans forward, adopting a posture of concerned intervention. “Emma, sweetheart, it’s okay to be upset—”
“DON’T CALL ME THAT!” Emma whirls, a tiny fury with tear-bright eyes. “You’re not my mom! Stop using her words!”
“I’m not trying to be your mom, I’m just trying to—”
“I HAVE A MOM!” The scream is pure, unfiltered agony. “SHE HAS BLONDE HAIR AND SHE SMELLS LIKE FLOWERS AND SHE’S COMING BACK FOR ME AND YOU ARE NOT HER!”
She bolts for the kitchen. I’m on my feet, but my limbs feel leaden, trapped in the syrup of this slow-motion disaster. She returns instantly, her face a mask of tragic defiance, one hand hidden behind her back.
“You aren’t my mom,” she whispers to Patricia, the tremor in her voice more terrifying than the shout. “And you won’t ever be.”
Her arm swings forward in a short, violent arc. The egg—a large, brown one from the carton we’d left on the counter—flies across the space between them.
Time dilates. I see the trajectory, the slow spin, the inevitable conclusion. My hand reaches out, a futile gesture. Patricia’s eyes widen in dawning, surreal comprehension.
Thwack.
The impact is softer than you’d think, a damp, solid sound.
The shell collapses against the fine wool of her navy blazer.
For a suspended second, nothing happens.
Then, a vivid sunburst of yolk and albumen blooms across her chest, a grotesque, dripping badge of honor.
It oozes downward, clinging to the fabric.
Patricia gasps, a short, sharp intake of air. She looks down at the ruin of her blazer as if it’s a foreign object, something that cannot possibly be attached to her. She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t move. She simply stares.
“Emma Irene!” The roar is out of me before I can stop it. But she is already in flight, a blur of strawberry apron and blonde ponytail. Her bedroom door slams with a force that reverberates through the floorboards, a period at the end of the sentence.
Silence, thick and sickly sweet with the smell of raw egg.
Patricia slowly raises her eyes from the devastation on her blazer to my face. Her expression is not one of anger, but of profound, almost clinical reassessment. The polished professionalism has evaporated, leaving behind a cold, clear understanding.
“I am… so sorry.” The apology is ashes in my mouth. I snatch a dish towel, thrust it toward her. “Here, let me—”
“It’s alright.” Her voice is eerily calm. She takes the towel, dabs once at the mess, and stops. The egg has already bonded with the wool. The gesture is pointless. “Really. It’s fine.”
“It’s not okay.” I run my hand through my hair. “She’s been struggling since her mother left, but that’s not an excuse. I’ll pay for the dry cleaning, of course, for the blazer—”
“Dr. Roussos.” She interrupts me, setting the soiled towel neatly on the coffee table, as if arranging evidence. “I don’t believe this will be a suitable arrangement.”
“Please, if you could just give me a moment to speak with her, this is not who she is—”
“I’m sure it’s not.” She stands, collecting her purse with a steady hand. Her gaze is direct, pitiful, and final. “She’s clearly dealing with significant trauma. She needs specialized support that I am not qualified to provide. I wish you both the very best in finding it.”
She moves toward the door with a dreadful, dignified composure. I follow, a condemned man escorting his executioner, still mouthing useless platitudes. “Thank you for your time. I’ll…I’ll send a check.”
A single, curt nod. Then she is gone, the door clicking shut with a sound of absolute finality.
I stand in the echo of her departure. From behind Emma’s door comes the muffled, heart-wrenching sound of her sobs—not of guilt, but of a grief so vast it has curdled into rage.
I’m out of strategies, out of hopeful narratives. I’m simply a father, alone in a hallway, with eggshell on the living room floor and the devastating understanding that love, in its most ferocious form, can look an awful lot like sabotage.
Seven interviews. Seven perfectly good nannies.
And I’m right back where I started.