Upstairs, something shattered. Laughter followed, sharp and unsteady.
On the wall hung a family photo taken years earlier. His wife, Maribel, knelt in the sand, smiling brightly as their six daughters clung to her. Jonathan touched the frame gently.
“I’m failing them,” he whispered to the empty room.
His phone rang.
The message was brief and careful. No licensed nanny would accept the job. Agencies had stopped calling.
Jonathan closed his eyes.
“Then don’t hire a nanny,” he said quietly.
“There is one option left,” his manager replied. “A residential cleaner. No childcare background listed.”
Jonathan looked out at the yard, where toys lay broken among overturned chairs.
“Hire whoever says yes.”
Across town, in a small apartment near National City, Nora Delgado tied her worn sneakers and slipped textbooks into a backpack. She worked cleaning homes six days a week and studied child psychology at night.
Her life had taught her not to fear silence.
Years earlier, she had lost someone she loved deeply. Since then, chaos did not rattle her. Grief felt familiar.
Her phone buzzed.
Emergency placement. Immediate start. Triple pay.
Nora glanced at the tuition bill taped to her refrigerator.
“Send the address,” she said.
The Whitaker house was beautiful in the way money often is. Bright windows. Clean lines. Ocean views.
Inside, it felt abandoned.
