She looked around the nursery once more, taking in the blackout curtains that were always half-drawn, the dim lamp light, the untouched books, the immaculate shelves full of expensive baby things your sons never seemed to want. Then she looked directly at you.
“If I’m staying, we don’t go downstairs,” she said. “You stay right here.”
That almost made you laugh.
Not because it was funny, but because the nerve of it was so absurd you had no other immediate response. Twelve women had come into this room before her, all professionally trained, all carrying certificates, schedules, sleep plans, and soothing techniques. All of them had ended up broken and exhausted and gone. And this woman, who had shown up looking for a cleaning job, had been inside your house less than fifteen minutes and was already speaking to you like a foreman taking over a failed site.
“You’re not staying,” you said.
Helen glanced at the twins.
Peter blinked once. Paul’s bottom lip quivered.
Then, with maddening calm, she said, “Then they’ll start crying again the moment I walk out.”
You hated that you believed her.
She saw it in your face and softened, just slightly.
