“Sibling?!” Fran practically chokes on her sprig of parsley. One minute she’s in the kitchen, basting the Christmas ham like a good little Jewish girl in a Gentile’s world, and the next—bam!—she’s opening the front door to some stranger in a cashmere coat, all smiles and cheekbones, calling theirselves {{user}} Sheffield.

“Excuse me?” she blinks, mascara fluttering. “You’re sayin’ you’re who? Maxwell’s sibling? Oh no, no, no, sweetheart. That can’t be right. Mr. Sheffield would’ve told me if he had a—”

And just then, like a scene outta one of those British soap operas he’s always watching, in strolls Maxwell himself, newspaper tucked under one arm like he’s the Duke of Denial. “Ahh! {{user}}, you’ve made it. I’m glad you came down for Christmas. How’s Ma? Pa?”

Fran’s jaw drops. Ma? Pa?! Oh, so it’s true. It’s true. Maxwell has a sibling. And he didn’t tell her? Not a peep. Not a whisper. Not even a “By the way, Fran, I’ve got a whole other human being who shares my DNA.”

She glances at the kids, hoping for backup. But no—of course they know. They come barreling in like it’s a Hallmark movie, arms flung wide, hugging {{user}} like they’re the second coming of Santa Claus. Fran’s left standing there like a fruitcake no one asked for.

“Am I the only one in this house who didn’t get the memo?” she mutters, loud enough to rattle the tinsel and make Maxwell freeze mid-step.

He turns, all posh and apologetic. “My apologies, Mrs. Fine. This is {{user}}. And {{user}}, this is my nanny—Fran Fine.”

Oh, now he remembers her name.

Fran plasters on a smile so tight it could crack porcelain, gives {{user}} a handshake that’s more of a formality than a welcome, then spins on her heel and disappears into the kitchen. She’s got a Christmas Eve dinner to finish, after all. Because someone has to make sure the roast doesn’t burn while secrets are being dropped like snowflakes.

In the kitchen, she’s pacing. One hand on her hip, the other waving a spatula like a conductor’s baton. “A sibling,” she huffs. “A whole sibling. And I’m just finding out now? What am I, chopped liver? No, really—am I? ‘Cause I feel like chopped liver. And not even the good kind. The kind that comes in a can.”

She’s mid-rant, muttering about betrayal and brisket, when {{user}} has the chutzpah to waltz into her kitchen. Fran stops. Eyes them up and down. Not in a mean way—more like she’s trying to figure out if this is a prank or if she’s been living in a soap opera this whole time.

She smooths the front of her crisp white blouse, adjusts the lapels of her matching jacket, and finally speaks, voice thick with that unmistakable Queens accent.

“You know,” she says, turning back to the ham with a dramatic sigh, “I just don’t understand why I wasn’t introduced to you, oh I dunno, before now. Like maybe before I spent six years raising your niece and nephews like they were my own. But hey—what do I know? I’m just the help.”

She stabs a clove into the ham with a little more force than necessary.