Page 35 of The Nanny Goal

I groan at the specificity of the request. “Inessa.”

She crosses her arms over her chest and pouts.

I count backwards from five and decide at three that it’s not worth trying to be firm. I give Emery a strained look. “Can you make fluffy pancakes? I tried this morning but…”

Emery smiles down at my daughter. “I can make you the best pancakes you’ve ever had.”

“Boo berries?” Inessa adds in a whisper.

“You bet, baby girl. Absolutely with blueberries.”

They go ahead of me, flowing past me like I’m an ornamental statute, irrelevant to the moment.

Which I am.

The only reason Emery is here is that she’s doing a favour for my family, for my daughter and my mother, because they are innocent in the mess I made two years ago when I left her hotel room so quickly.

And then I made it so much worse by not reaching out soon enough to explain what happened…

Because by the time I did, it was too late. She’d blocked me and moved on with my life.

I had to spend the next year listening to her brother update me on her new adventures and her new dating life.

“Hard to see your baby sister grow up suddenly, man. I don’t know what’s gotten into her, but she’s got a new boyfriend or girlfriend every single week it seems. Definitely testing my parents’ limits.”

It made me burn with jealousy. And if she hadn’t blocked me, I would have thought that hurting me was the point.

But she went out of her way to make sure I couldn’t see it.

I couldn’t forget the taste of her, and she wanted nothing to do with me at all.

And now here she is. In my house, in my kitchen. About to make my daughter pancakes, because Papa doesn’t know how to do that, and it’s a lot to process. Really fucking hard.

For two years, I wondered what it would be like to see Emery again.

I knew it would be hard. Complicated, messy. I expected old wounds to re-open in one way or another.

Never in a million imaginings did I imagine being instantly passed over for my daughter. This makes it all easier, I suppose.

And it’s nice to see Inessa happy.

But there’s something about seeing their heads bent together conspiratorially that feels as if I’ve been hit in the chest with a cleaver.

Inessa’s mother will never make her pancakes. I’m not sure if she’ll ever want tobuyher daughter pancakes.

Over the last two years, I’ve made my peace about Tatyana’s choice to give me a child, but not participate in the raising of her. We were young, and family life in Calgary was never going to be right for her. Hamilton even less so.

I can’t imagine what she would have done when I was traded if we still lived together. Had a tantrum, probably.

As it was, when I informed her that we were moving closer to the east coast, and would be a short flight from New York City, she told me that she looked forward to taking Inessa shopping there “when the girl is old enough.” Like it was just a given that, after eight or ten or fifteen years of abandonment, any girl would want to have a big city shopping spree with her absentee jet-setting birth mother.

“Is this your pantry?” Emery’s question pulls me out of my thoughts.

I put her backpack by the door that goes down to the basement and nod. “My mother keeps everything very organized.”

“I can see that.” She puts a container of flour on the counter, then opens the fridge, revealing my mother’s effort. It’s always neatly organized and well-stocked, through no work on my part, but I like seeing the impressed look on Emery’s face all the same.

She adds blueberries, eggs, and milk to supplies she’s going to use, then holds up a container of cottage cheese. “Do you want protein pancakes?”

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