Page 37 of The Nanny Goal

I haven’t even given her a tour of the fucking house yet. Haven’t said I’m sorry yet. Haven’t addressed the elephant in the room, and now that’s just not…I can’t…

I feel like a piece of shit, falling apart in front of her.

“We’re going to stay here and make pancakes,” she says softly. Talking to Inessa, but also to me. “Your dad has to go to the hospital for the afternoon. Can you show me your bedroom after lunch, and maybe teach me how you have a nap?”

“No nap.”

“But what ifIneed a nap?”

“Can-cakes.”

“You’re right. That’s good prioritization. Can-cakes first, then Emery needs a nap.”

I wipe my eyes and look sideways.

She’s wrapped her arms around my daughter, holding her safe and secure, and carrying on a patient, amused one-sided conversation. She shines so fucking bright, like high noon on the warmest summer day.

I don’t deserve her kindness.

But Inessa does, and Emery clearly gets that distinction.

“Thank you,” I say roughly. “I’ll make this up to you.”

She doesn’t look at me as she shrugs.

But her smile slips just a little, and I’m sharply reminded that the time to make anything up to her was two years ago.

And now it’s too late.

CHAPTER12

EMERY

As soon as Alexei is out the door, my phone is out of my pocket.

“What are the chances you want to learn how to make a toddler take a nap?” I ask Inessa.

She solemnly shakes her head. “Can-cakes.”

“We’re going to multitask.”

I pull a chair up to the counter and give her a whisk so she can mix the dry ingredients together while I scroll TikTok for some babysitting tips.

Crowdsourcing life tips is my superpower. I love learning new things, and I’m pretty sure I can tackle spending the afternoon with a tiny, bossy little girl the same way I do everything else in my life.

“What’s dat?” Inessa asks, flicking the flour-covered whisk in the direction of my phone.

“I’m learning how to be an emergency back up babysitter,” I murmur. “Oh, let’s try to keep the flour in the bowl. Gentle stirs. That’s good.”

I melt some butter, then convince her to switch tools to a spatula as I add in the wet ingredients.

“Do you want the blueberries in the pancakes, or on top of the pancakes?” I mime adding the fruit to the batter.

Inessa’s response is immediate distress.

“No?”

“No,” she repeats.

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