She planted doubt.
“Your boys need their father,” she’d say softly. “Not a stranger.”
Daniel tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
At a red light, he glanced at the empty back seat and felt the sting of a truth he avoided: he didn’t know what his sons smelled like when they were sleepy. He didn’t know which lullaby calmed them. He didn’t know when Noah had learned to say “water,” or why Lucas scrunched his nose at baby food.
He knew contracts. Numbers. Deadlines.
Emily had died during childbirth.
And with her, something inside him had shut down.
The twins weren’t just babies. They were the last breath of his wife turned into cries he didn’t know how to soothe.
So he delegated.
And Trish took control.
Until Alma arrived.
Alma had knocked on the mansion door one quiet morning, holding a small duffel bag and wearing a knitted sweater.
“I’m here about the nanny position,” she’d said shyly.
Daniel barely looked at her. Signed papers. Left for work.
But Alma looked at the boys.
She noticed the diaper rash. The red skin. The tiny trembling hands from crying too long. She held them like they were her own blood. She sang softly in Spanish lullabies her grandmother used to hum when life felt heavy.
