Page 13 of Raphael
"I'm sorry," Annie says softly, her eyes filled with genuine compassion. "Marco deserved better than that."
"He did." I drain my glass, setting it aside. "But we manage. He's a resilient kid."
"He's wonderful," she agrees, smiling. "So smart and curious. He spent an hour today explaining the difference between carnivores and herbivores to me, complete with demonstrations using his dinosaur toys."
The image makes me laugh despite the heaviness of our previous topic. "He's obsessed with dinosaurs. Goes through phases where he'll only answer to 'T-Rex' or 'Raptor.'"
Annie's laughter joins mine. "He tried that today! Informed me very seriously that he was 'actually a velociraptor' during lunch."
"What did you do?"
"Played along, of course. Asked Mr. Velociraptor if he preferred his chicken nuggets with ketchup or barbecue sauce."
Most adults get frustrated with Marco's imagination games, trying to correct him back to reality. Annie understands instinctively what he needs—play, acceptance, someone to meet him in his world rather than drag him into ours.
"You're good with him," I say, moving to refill our glasses. "Better than any of the previous nannies."
She accepts the refill with a smile. "I like kids. Always have. Maybe because I was an only child. I used to beg my parents for siblings."
"And they didn't deliver?"
A shadow crosses her face. "Mom had complications with me. Couldn't have more children."
"I'm sorry," I say, recognizing the familiar territory of family pain. "That must have been hard for her."
Annie nods, taking another sip of wine. "It was. Dad tried to make up for it by being this larger-than-life presence. Always bringing home stray animals, planning elaborate birthday surprises, making everyday moments feel special." Her eyes grow distant with memory. "Even when his work took him away for days or weeks, he'd come back with these wild stories and adventures for us."
I lean forward, genuinely interested. "What happened to him? If you don't mind my asking."
"Undercover operation went bad," she says simply, her fingers tracing the stem of her wine glass. "He was investigating a drug trafficking ring. Someone made him, and..." She trails off, shrugging one shoulder in a gesture that doesn't quite hide her pain. "Three years ago next month."
"I'm sorry," I say again, inadequate words for such a profound loss.
I understand grief. My own parents abandoned me to the foster system when I was eight, but my abandonment was a choice, not the tragic loss of a loving father.
"It's okay," she says, offering a small smile. "Well, not okay, but... life goes on, you know? Mom took it harder. That's partly why I work so much, trying to help with bills while she pulls herself back together."
The responsibilities on her shoulders explain the maturity I sensed in her from our first meeting. Twenty-one but with the steady presence of someone much older, carrying burdens most college students couldn't imagine.
"That's why you need this job," I state rather than ask.
She nods, meeting my eyes directly. "The pay is generous. More than generous. It will help with tuition, rent, Mom's medical bills..." She stops herself, as if realizing she's said too much. "Anyway, yes. I need this job. But I also genuinely like Marco, so it's not just about the money."
I believe her. The way she lights up when talking about my son can't be faked.
"What about you?" she asks, shifting the conversation. "Did you always want to be a..."
"Driver?" I supply, using my official job title rather than the more complicated reality.
"Is that what you call it?" she asks, a hint of challenge in her voice. Not quite crossing the line into asking questions she shouldn’t but dancing right up to that edge.
I smile despite myself. "Among other things. And no, when I was a kid I wanted to be a firefighter."
"Really?" She looks genuinely surprised.
"Don't sound so shocked," I laugh. "Saving people from burning buildings seemed heroic to eight-year-old me."
"What changed?"
