The Mystery of the Vanishing Nannies
The coffee in my mug had long gone cold as I stared at yet another resignation email on my phone screen. This made five babysitters in three weeks. Five. Each one had seemed perfect during the interview—experienced, kind, enthusiastic about watching Sophia and Oliver. And each one had quit after exactly one day, leaving behind cryptic messages about “unexpected circumstances” or “family emergencies.”
I set my phone down on the granite countertop and rubbed my temples, feeling the familiar tension headache building behind my eyes. The morning sun streamed through the kitchen windows of our Victorian home in Beacon Hill, painting everything in warm golden light that should have felt comforting but instead highlighted the chaos scattered across every surface—Sophia’s art supplies, Oliver’s toy cars, breakfast dishes I hadn’t had time to wash.
“Mommy?” Sophia appeared in the doorway, her dark curls still messy from sleep. At six, she was perceptive enough to sense my frustration but not quite old enough to understand it. “Why do you look sad?”
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