Page 215 of Trouble from Abroad
One brow lifts. She takes two, then turns another page, like I’ve barely earned her forgiveness. I’ll take the small victory coated in chocolate.
“When is Mia coming back?”
Ha. Knew it.
“She’s just helping Auntie April and Uncle Liam find a new house. She’ll pick you up from school—I promise.”
Will you look at that? The nanny’s got the whole house wrapped around her finger.
She doesn’t say anything after that. Just nods and goes back to her book, flipping another page like the conversation never happened.
Then she starts humming—low and tuneless, just a thread of sound.
But I recognize the cadence.
Mia hums like that when she’s focused.
It’s a small thing, but it hits hard. Too hard to ignore. Too deep and complicated to rationalize. Mia’s woven herself into our lives so quickly. There’s a thread tying her to my daughter now. And there’s no denying it: we’re happier with her around.
“I thought you liked Tuesdays,” I offer gently. “Less pressure than Mondays. And you’ve got gym class too.”
Lily shrugs without looking up. Great. I’m getting the silent treatment. Apparently, giving the nanny the morning off without consulting her first is grounds for rebellion. I’ve explained Mia’s absence multiple times already, but the logic fell on deaf ears.
Still, her brows twitch when I stand. “I forgot something,” I say, grabbing my phone.
She narrows her eyes, looking suspicious.
I gesture toward the stairs. “Just upstairs. One minute.”
She exhales, full of the long-suffering sigh of a child forced to tolerate adult incompetence, then slides off the chair with exaggerated effort. “Fine.”
God, I love this kid.
I swallow a laugh out of respect for her feelings and theatrical talent.
Backpack slung over her shoulder, she drifts toward the front door, pulling on her headphones and tapping her iPad to start a new Duolingo lesson. Spanish this week. Last week, it was Italian. She’s six and already outpacing me.
I hover until she presses play. “¿Dónde está la biblioteca?” echoes faintly from her headphones.
Good enough.
I bolt.
Two steps at a time. Trying not to think. Failing.
I shouldn’t check on Mia. I know better.
I should give her space. Let her rest. Be grateful she didn’t run screaming from the house this morning. Hell, I should still be downstairs with my daughter, doing responsible things like cleaning up after breakfast or planning a weekend museum trip. Instead, I’m halfway to Mia’s door with a semi and a fast-slipping grip on my good ol’ common sense.
I pause.
I should text her and leave. That’s what a sane man would do.
My hand hovers over my phone, thumb grazing the edge, caught between the vivid memory of her moaning and the low, steady hum slipping beneath her door.
Did she leave already and forget to turn something off?
Or is she still in there, and I get to see her before I go?
