She was in her mid-twenties, dressed simply, with a calm voice and steady eyes. During the rushed interview—interrupted by business calls and the twins’ screaming—she didn’t flinch. While one child threw a glass and the other wailed, she simply smiled and asked, “Can I start now?”
Desperate, Matthew agreed.
For three days, he barely saw her. He left before sunrise and returned late at night to a quiet, spotless house and small notes on the table: Everything is fine. The children ate and had their bath. He assumed she was just more efficient than the others.
But that afternoon, as he walked toward the kitchen, bracing for noise and disorder, he heard something unfamiliar.
Laughter.
Real, bright, carefree laughter.
He stopped at the doorway—and froze.
Emily stood at the sink, hands covered in soap, washing dishes. Behind her, Ben stood on a stool, hugging her neck, laughing. Beside her, Caleb’s face and hair were covered in foam, grinning wider than Matthew had seen in months—maybe years.
Emily hummed softly while blowing bubbles into the air. The boys reached for them, squealing with joy. The scene felt unreal. These weren’t the same children who had driven everyone away.