5. Conrad
CONRAD
By Wednesday morning, I could say that I’d started sleeping better. I still had insomnia, and I still listened for the kids throughout the night, but I slept a lot deeper than I’d become accustomed to.
For years, I’d had trouble falling asleep.
When I did sleep, it was shallow and temporary, my body shutting down while my brain continued to pace the hallways, carrying a clipboard and unresolved guilt.
No matter how exhausted I got, I never really got any rest. I woke constantly.
Checked doors. Checked monitors when the kids were younger.
Checked the time. Checked whether I’d forgotten something important enough to negatively impact the kids.
Now, I didn’t spend the entire night bracing for disaster. I suspected Winnie had something to do with that. Which felt ridiculous considering I’d only known her a few days.
But still.
That morning started with Billie announcing there had been “a death incident” in the upstairs bathroom. I nearly dropped my coffee, but then Winnie calmly explained, “One of the goldfish-shaped soaps dissolved unexpectedly.”
Lately, every statement coming out of Billie’s mouth sounded like a police report, and I was still learning to take it in my stride.
“Dad,” Billie said over the phone that afternoon while I sat trapped in my office, listening to three executives debating fonts on a presentation nobody would remember in forty-eight hours, “we found a buried body.”
Across the conference table, Peterson was still talking about “brand continuity.”
“Billie,” I said carefully, standing from my chair and nodding at the others to go on, “what do you mean by buried body?”
“A whole body.”
My pulse picked up.
“A tiny one,” she added, which was not helpful at all.
“Where’s Winnie?”
“In the kitchen. Bianca says we should call the police, but I think we should bury it again.”
Jesus Christ.
“Put me on speaker,” I said as I stepped out into the hallway. “Winnie, could you please tell me what is going on?”
There was rustling on the other end before Winnie came on the line, sounding eerily calm for someone potentially overseeing a homicide.
“She found an old action figure when she was digging in the backyard,” she explained calmly.
Relief had me sagging against the wall.
“She named him Gregory.”
“One of his shoes is missing,” Billie said in the background. “That’s evidence of foul play.”
“You understand how that sounded, right?” I asked.
“Perfectly,” Winnie said, and I swore I could hear a smile in her voice.
The children adored her, which was definitely saying something.
Winnie saw them clearly and noticed everything.
Most importantly, she noticed the grief hiding under the chaos and the fibbing.
And instead of reacting with horror and frustration like every other nanny we’ve had, Winnie simply acknowledged the damage and stepped around it.
By Thursday evening, all three children had finished their homework before I got home. Voluntarily. Without me having to resort to threats or bribery.
I’d walked into the kitchen expecting to find an argument happening or Billie hanging upside down from the furniture.
Instead, I found Bianca chopping herbs, her brow furrowed in concentration, CJ setting the table, and Billie drying dishes while loudly singing a new song she’d created about geese and “economic injustice.”
I stopped in the doorway.
Nobody noticed me. It seemed they had become a functioning household while I was at work.
“Perfect timing,” Winnie had said when she glanced up and saw me. “Billie was just explaining her understanding of tax reform.”
Billie pointed a wooden spoon at me. “The geese are being exploited.”
CJ nodded gravely. “It’s systemic.”
I looked at Winnie. “Should I ask for more details?”
“No.”
“Very well.”
She turned back toward the stove. It took me a few seconds to realize I was still looking at her, thinking about how effortlessly beautiful she was.
I tore my attention away before I could expand on my increasingly embarrassing internal monologue.
Besides, there were more important things to notice, like my children helping with dinner without arguing.
A tiny ache sparked to life deep inside me.
The domesticity wasn’t polished like the kind from commercials where everyone wore cream-colored sweaters and laughed as they carried salad bowls to the table.
No, I’d stepped into a glimpse of the real thing.
The kids were talking over each other, and the scent of slightly burnt garlic hung in the air.
Someone had shoved their homework assignment aside near fruit bowl.
And in the middle of it all, a woman in black velvet calmly discussing geese while stirring soup.
The house felt alive again.
Winnie was a big part of that. Every single night that week, after the kids went upstairs and I walked Winnie to the door, she told me a terrible joke.
The first one had caught me completely off guard.
“Before I go,” she’d said Tuesday evening while putting on her gloves, “did you know I used to be addicted to soap?”
“What?”
“But I’m clean now.”
I’d stared at her for a full three seconds. Then, Billie yelled from upstairs, asking if I’d fallen.
Winnie had looked thoroughly amused.
Wednesday’s joke was worse. “What kind of shoes do kidnappers wear?”
“I’m afraid to answer.”
“White Vans.”
I’d covered my face with my hands and laughed.
Now, I found myself anticipating her jokes.
Winnie also gave me a riddle to solve every morning before I left for work. They sat in the back of my brain all day while I tried to work.
Thursday’s had been: “What gets wetter the more it dries?”
I’d spent four hours distracted and trying to figure it out. Four hours. At lunch, Peterson caught me staring at a hand dryer in silence and asked if I was okay.
That afternoon, Billie had called me during a budget review.
“Dad,” she whispered dramatically, “Bianca killed CJ.”
Everything in me went cold immediately. I stood up so fast, my chair fell over. “What?”
“He died beautifully.”
“Billie!” There was a crash on the line, followed by Winnie taking the phone.
“Nobody is dead,” she said.
In the background, CJ shouted, “I was betrayed by my own sister.”
“I was playing the piano!” Bianca said.
Winnie sighed softly. “They were practicing for the spring recital, and somehow it evolved into a murder tragedy involving poisoned royalty.”
“Understandable,” I muttered weakly.
“CJ has written approximately six pages of backstory.”
Of course he had. I rubbed my forehead. And then, against all logic, I started laughing. It wasn’t a chuckle, but the kind of laugh I used to have before every phone call from home carried at least a small possibility of emergency.
“They’d be more than happy to perform it for you after dinner,” Winnie added.
“They would, would they?”
“Oh yes.”
By Friday, the routine no longer felt temporary, even though I kept waiting for the collapse. The screaming resignation. The tears. The “I’m so sorry, but your children are menaces.”
Instead, everything improved daily. The kids stopped demanding separate dinners every night, and they did their homework without needing intervention from the Geneva Convention.
To my surprise and delight, CJ had even put away the laundry once, without being asked, though he had narrated the process like a war documentary.
Bianca had taken lingering in the kitchen while Winnie cooked, saying she was observing knife techniques, but she obviously wanted the company.
And darling Billie still created chaos, but now the chaos came with cleanup because Winnie had convinced her that true scientists respected their laboratories.
It was terrifyingly effective.
Some nights, the kids insisted that Winnie stay even when she was off duty.
She always agreed, and I quickly found I enjoyed her presence.
Friday night at dinner, we were eating roasted chicken with potatoes and green beans.
Smiling, I glanced around the table. There was ketchup on Billie’s forehead for some reason, but she was happily shoveling food into her mouth.
Bianca, like usual, was reading between bites.
CJ was describing a school argument involving a raccoon mascot and deeply flawed democratic processes, gesturing with his fork.
It was so completely normal.
“A kid threw up on his desk in science today,” Bianca said, not bothering to look up from her book.
“That almost happened in my class, too,” CJ said, before stuffing some chicken into his mouth.
Billie wiggled in her chair, nodding enthusiastically. “A boy in my class actually made it into the hallway before he exploded.”
I paused mid-bite. “Exploded.”
“With vomit,” Bianca clarified.
“Important distinction, sweetheart.”
“I think it’s going around,” CJ added. “Half the sixth graders were out.”
I made a mental note to buy more disinfectant wipes.
When my phone buzzed, I realized what time it was. Jade’s sister, Amethyst, always called at the same time every week. She was a busy woman, but she never missed her chance to catch up with the kids. I handed the phone to CJ.
“Is it Aunt Amethyst?” he asked.
I nodded and the kids scrambled around my phone.
“Well, hello, my favorite gremlins,” Amethyst greeted as soon as CJ answered on speaker.
“You always say we’re your favorites,” Bianca pointed out.
“That’s because you’re the only ones willing to laugh at my jokes.”
Billie puffed out her chest. “I laugh the most.”
“You certainly do. Now tell me everything. Has your father accidentally set the kitchen on fire this week?”
I scoffed as Winnie hid her smile. Together, we carried plates to the sink while the kids launched into three different stories at once.
CJ insisted on describing his homework in great detail; Bianca interrupted to talk about the historical inaccuracies in the book she was reading; Billie loudly informed her aunt that even though I’d burned breakfast, the pancakes had been “somewhat successful.”