Page 9 of Nanny for the Firefighters
I shake my head. "Not really. Our options are looking pretty bleak right now. But we still have one lead, if you're interested."
4
ELLA
Icarefully arrange a pile of past due bills next to a thriving peace lily.
A recent memory pops unbidden into my head, momentarily clearing the fog of anxiety that's taken up permanent residence in my mind. I remember the last baby I nannied, a cherubic little terror who started calling me "Mom" after just two weeks. Not because we had a mystical bond, but because his actual mother, a woman who believed a parenting book was more accessory than manual, seemed to find her Gucci bag more cuddly than her child.
I let out a dry chuckle, watering my army of houseplants that seem to be the only living things thriving under my care. "At least you guys can't talk yet," I muse aloud, misting a fern that's perched high on a stack of books. The books are a mix of self-help and mystery novels, which, if you squint, is pretty much the summary of my life right now.
The walls of my small apartment are covered in a riot of colors, art I've picked up from local markets and garage sales, each piece evocative of my love for things that have a bit of a story. The kitchen, a tiny affair, boasts an array of pots hanging from hooks, their bottoms worn from use but still good for a stir-fry or a desperate midnight mac 'n cheese session.
I shuffle over to the kitchen, the mismatched tiles cool under my feet. I'm out of milk, a discovery I make only after I've already scooped the coffee grounds into the French press. "Black it is," I declare to the room, because who needs milk when life is already watered down enough as it is?
The microwave dings, and I retrieve my dinner—a frozen lasagna that looks nothing like the picture on the box. I prod it with a fork, the cheese squeaking in protest. "Quiet," I warn the pasta with mock severity. "You're not the only one having a tough day."
Dinner in hand, I retreat to my makeshift office, which is really just a corner of the living room where my ancient laptop sits amid a sprawl of paperwork. I'm still hunting for a proper job, something that pays more than just compliments and occasional babysitting gigs. The screen lights up with a burst of emails—all of them screaming Urgent but none of them bearing good news.
The rent notice sits ominously on top of the pile. I poke at my lasagna as I read it for the umpteenth time, the words Final Notice glaring back at me. My landlord, a sweet old lady who knits more scarves than anyone could possibly need, has been patient, but even her kindness has limits, apparently.
I sigh, setting aside the notice and pulling my laptop closer. The job hunt resumes. I type in my credentials, filter the options, and send out applications into the void, hoping for something that sticks. My phone buzzes—a text from my best friend checking in. Alive but drowning in bills, I text back, adding a smiley face to show that I'm fine, really, just marinating in financial limbo.
Another sip of my harsh black coffee, and I'm back to scrolling through job listings. Nanny, caregiver, personal assistant—positions that demand a heart of gold and the patience of a saint. I have at least one of those, maybe.
Mid-scroll, a loud knock at my door startles me. I glance through the peephole and open it to find my neighbor, Mrs. Gilmore, holding a plate of something that smells like heaven.
"I saw your light on, dear. Made too many cookies. Thought you might like some," she says, her eyes crinkling with warmth.
I take the plate, my heart swelling a bit. "Thank you, Mrs. Gilmore. You're an angel."
"Ah, just spreading some sugar." She winks, then shuffles back to her apartment across the hall.
I close the door, a genuine smile breaking through the gloom. The cookies, warm and loaded with chocolate chips, are a stark contrast to my sad dinner. I eat one, then another, contemplating the kind of job that would allow me to buy ingredients to make my own cookies—something simple, grounding.
The evening stretches on, a blend of job applications, cookie breaks, and contemplative stares out the window. My plants seem to nod in encouragement every time I glance their way, their leaves whispering in the faint breeze from my second-hand fan.
Eventually, I shut my laptop with a decisive click. Enough for tonight. I curl up on the couch, surrounded by colorful cushions and the comforting scent of Mrs. Gilmore's cookies, and allow myself a moment to just be.
A nap dusted with crumbs and a mini-nightmare about wrangling spoiled, rich kids—yep, this is the glamorous life I lead. As I blink awake, crumbs tumble from my chest to the couch, performing a tiny, tragic ballet of descent. Just as I'm about to cherish this peak moment of adulting, my phone dings with the enthusiasm of a toddler banging pots.
What now?
It's my landlady. The subject line alone is enough to make my stomach drop to my socks. I scan the email with a growing sense of doom. Two more weeks until the month ends… and I wave goodbye to my semi-stable, crumb-infested existence.
Fantastic.
I bury my face in my hands, which smell faintly of chocolate chips. Maybe I could scout for jobs in one of those posh areas of town? My resume is pretty decent. Clearly, I am the bottleneck here, being too choosy about my next family. But honestly, the thought of juggling cleaning, bedtime stories, managing tantrums, and ducking from the hair-pulling claws of a teenager who thinks the world owes them a runway isn't exactly what I had in mind for a thriving career.
No. I can't do it.
"Never again," I mutter to myself, a vow floating in the cramped space of my living room. I'm tired of working for affluent families who see me more as a convenient accessory than a caregiver.
As if on cue, the phone rings, slicing through the quiet aftermath of my rant. I glance at the caller ID—another unknown number, likely another family looking for a nanny. My finger hovers over the decline button, but curiosity wins. I swipe to answer, pressing the phone against my ear.
"Hello, Ella speaking."
"Hi, Ella, this is Diane from the Carter Agency. We found your resume and are impressed by your extensive experience. We have a high-profile client who is seeking a live-in nanny. Would you be available for an interview tomorrow?"