Chapter 6 - EMMA WALKED AWAY BEFORE I COULD ASK HER TO STAY
“No.”
Emma’s eyebrows lifted.
I almost laughed at myself.
I had apparently learned nothing.
I tried again.
“Why?”
“Because the boys are safe.”
“That’s your reason for leaving?”
“It’s part of it.”
The triplets were upstairs with María, our housekeeper.
I had never been more grateful they could not hear us.
Emma put the suitcase down.
“When I came here, you needed a nanny.”
“I still do.”
“No.”
She smiled sadly.
“You need a father schedule. Family therapy. Stable staff. A house that isn’t run like a hotel.”
“You’re very comfortable insulting my home.”
“I’ve earned it.”
Fair.
“And?”
“And I’m too involved.”
My chest tightened.
“With the boys?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a good thing.”
“For them?”
She looked at me.
“Or for you?”
There it was.
The thing neither of us had said.
“Emma.”
“No.”
She stepped back.
“You’re grieving.”
“It has been a year.”
“Grief doesn’t check calendars.”
“I know.”
“You almost lost your sons.”
“Yes.”
“You’re changing your entire life.”
“Yes.”
“And right now, I’m the woman standing in the middle of all that.”
I understood.
She was afraid my feelings were gratitude.
Relief.
Dependency.
Not love.
Maybe she was right to be afraid.
“What do you want?”
“My own life.”
The words hurt.
“I have one.”
She continued:
“I was a behavioral specialist before I became a nanny.”
“I know.”
“You learned that yesterday.”
Another fair hit.
“I left St. Anne’s because the funding ended. I took private nanny work because it paid more.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Open a family-support center.”
“For grieving children?”
“For families dealing with loss, trauma, disability, difficult transitions.”
She looked toward the staircase.
“Kids like your boys.”
“Then do it.”
Her expression hardened.
“No.”
I had stepped directly into the trap.
“I don’t mean I’ll buy it.”
“You were about to.”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“I’m trying.”
Emma smiled.
“I know.”
That made leaving worse.
“I need to know I can build something without you handing it to me.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
I stepped closer.
“And I need to know what I feel when you’re not under my roof because I sign your paycheck.”
Her eyes softened.
There.
Truth.
“You’re letting me go?”
“I don’t think I have a choice.”
“You could fire me dramatically.”
“I considered it.”
“I know.”
I wanted to touch her.
Didn’t.
Instead:
“Thirty days’ severance according to your contract.”
“That’s acceptable.”
“Not charity.”
“Good.”
“Reference letter.”
“I’ll take that.”
“And if you need—”
She raised one eyebrow.
I stopped.
“Right.”
She laughed.
Then started crying.
That nearly ended every mature decision I had just made.
I stood helplessly.
“You can hug me,” she whispered.
Thank God.
I did.
Carefully at first.
Then she held me tighter.
For one long moment, the mansion disappeared.
There was only Emma.
Warm.
Real.
Leaving.
“I’m going to miss you,” I said.
She stepped back.
“You have my number.”
“That sounded cruel.”
“It was supposed to sound hopeful.”
The boys reacted badly.
Leo screamed.
Lucas refused dinner.
Liam stood at the front door saying:
“Em.”
Over.
And over.
I nearly called her.
I did not.
Instead, I sat on the floor with all three.
“I know.”
Leo hit my chest.
“Emma!”
“I know.”
Lucas cried harder.
“I miss her too.”
That silenced him for half a second.
I had never told my children I missed anyone.
Not even Isabella.
I had assumed showing pain would make them less safe.
Wrong again.
“Mama?” Liam whispered.
I looked toward Isabella’s photograph.
“Yes.”
I lifted him.
“We miss Mama too.”
Leo stared at the picture.
Then cried.
All four of us sat on the nursery floor.
And for the first time since my wife died, I cried in front of my sons.
Nothing collapsed.
They did not become afraid.
Lucas climbed into my lap.
Leo pressed against my shoulder.
Liam touched my face.
We survived honesty.
The social worker visited three days later.
She watched breakfast.
Playtime.
Therapy.
My work schedule.
I had cut travel by seventy percent.
Installed a permanent office at home.
Delegated two companies.
The board complained.
I survived.
She asked why six nannies left.
I answered truthfully.
“Because I expected employees to solve grief I was avoiding.”
Her pen stopped.
“That’s unusually self-aware.”
“I had help.”
She looked around.
“From Emma Brooks?”
“Yes.”
“Why did she resign?”
“Because she is smarter than I am.”
The social worker smiled.
Her final report recommended no guardianship intervention.
More importantly, she recommended continued family therapy and stable caregiver relationships.
I followed both.
I hired one nanny.
Not six.
A sixty-year-old woman named Denise Carter who had raised four sons and told me on day one:
“If you call during nap time for a non-emergency, I will hang up.”
I hired her immediately.
Emma started working at a nonprofit in Brooklyn while developing her family-center plan.
I did not fund it.
This became one of the hardest accomplishments of my adult life.
We texted.
Carefully.
Then less carefully.
Photos of the boys.
Stories.
One evening:
LUCAS ATE BLUE CRAYON.
Emma replied:
NONTOXIC?
YES.
THEN YOU’RE DOING GREAT, DAD.
I stared at the word.
Dad.
Not boss.
Not Mr. Moretti.
Dad.
Three months later, I asked her to dinner.
No employment relationship.
No custody crisis.
No emergency.
She waited six minutes to answer.
I know because I stared at the screen.
YES.
Dinner lasted four hours.
We did not discuss the children for the first forty minutes.
That was harder than expected.
Emma loved old horror movies.
Hated olives.
Had two older sisters.
Wanted to travel to Iceland.
She had once been engaged.
The man left after she gained weight following thyroid treatment.
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That face is threatening.”
“I’m considering locating him.”
She laughed.
“Absolutely not.”
“See? Growth. I asked through facial expression first.”
She shook her head.
“I don’t need revenge.”
“I know.”
“And I like my body.”
I looked at her.
“Good.”
Her smile changed.
“You’re staring.”
“Yes.”
“That’s very smooth.”
“I’ve been out of practice.”
She laughed again.
Our first kiss happened outside the restaurant.
No dramatic speech.
I asked:
“Can I?”
She said:
“Yes.”
That was enough.
Then my phone rang.
Dante.
I almost ignored it.
Emma noticed.
“Answer.”
I did.
“What?”
His voice was grim.
“Anthony’s been extradited.”
“Good.”
“No.”
My chest tightened.
“What?”
“He’s asking for a deal.”
“So?”
“He says Isabella’s accident wasn’t an accident.”
The world stopped.
Emma’s hand found mine.
May you like
And everything we thought we had survived opened again.
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