I’ve lost count of how many interviews I’ve done.

Every résumé looks the same now. Every smile feels rehearsed. Every promise about “loving children” collapses the second Lucy tests them—and she will, because she’s four, and smart, and stubborn, and hurting in ways she can’t articulate yet.

I can handle boardrooms full of executives who want to tear me apart, but I can’t keep doing twelve‑hour workdays and then pretending I’m not exhausted when she asks me to play.

I need help. I hate admitting it, but I do.

I’ve been trying to be her entire world, and I’ll keep trying, but I’m stretched thin. I’m missing things—little things, important things—and the guilt sits in my chest like a stone. She deserves someone who can give her attention without checking their phone every five minutes. Someone who won’t burn out. Someone who won’t leave.

I check the time again. She should be here by now.

Part of me is already bracing for another disappointment. Another polite handshake. Another person who talks to Lucy like she’s a task instead of a child. I’m ready to get this over with, ready to move on to the next name on the list.

Then there’s a knock.

I open the door and everything in me goes still.

Not because I’m unprofessional. Not because I’m looking for anything other than help. But because the last thing I expected—after months of fatigue and frustration—was to feel something hit me that fast, that clean, that quietly disarming.

Beautiful. The word lands before I can stop it. Before I can shove it down. Before I can remind myself this is an interview for a nanny position, not a moment.

I pull myself back together, straighten my posture, lock everything behind the calm I’m known for.

“Hey. Uh… Come in. We can start.”