“I had him, sir. I always have them. We were doing balance exercises—”
He barked a humorless laugh. “You call that exercise? I saw you sprawled like an animal, letting my children stomp on you with those filthy toilet gloves—”
“They’re brand new, sir. Just for play. The yellow helps them focus visually—”
“I don’t care about your daycare theories.” He raked a hand through perfectly combed hair, mussing it for the first time in years. “I pay you more than you’d earn in a decade anywhere else. I pay for care. For education. For manners. Not for a circus act on my living-room floor.”
He gestured at the chaos. “Look at yourself. Pathetic. What would people think if they walked in right now? What would Claire think if she saw the woman entrusted with her children treating them like trampolines?”
The mention of his late wife was a low blow. Lena bit her lip, eyes glistening, but held her ground. She needed this job. Her mother’s medical bills depended on it.
But Santi crawled to her, clinging to her navy skirt, sobbing into her knee.
Something fierce rose in her.