The taxi screeched away from the curb like it was escaping a crime scene, leaving a cloud of exhaust and a very traumatized woman standing at the bottom of the hill.
From the third-floor window of his sprawling Mediterranean-style mansion in La Jolla, San Diego, Jonathan Whitaker watched the taillights fade. He didn’t even have the energy to be angry anymore. He just felt hollow.
That was Nanny Number 37.
She had lasted exactly four hours.
“Sir,” Steven, his personal assistant, said from the doorway. Steven was holding a tablet like a shield. “The agency just called. They’re terminating our contract. They said… well, they said the girls are ‘feral’ and the working environment is ‘psychologically unsafe.'”
Jonathan turned around. He was thirty-six years old, the founder of a tech company worth billions, a man who could negotiate mergers with hostile foreign governments. But right now, he looked like he hadn’t slept in a decade. His designer shirt was wrinkled, and there was a smear of what looked like green slime on his cuff.
“Feral,” Jonathan repeated, rubbing his temples. “That’s a new one. usually, they just say ‘monsters.'”
He looked at the framed photo on his mahogany desk. It was the only clean thing in the room. It showed Maribel, his late wife, sitting on the beach at Coronado, surrounded by their six daughters. They looked like a chaotic, happy angel choir.
Maribel had been gone for six months. A sudden aneurysm. One minute she was laughing at a joke, the next she was gone.
And when she died, the music in the Whitaker house died with her.
“What do I do, Steven?” Jonathan asked, his voice cracking. “I have a board meeting in Tokyo in two days. I can’t leave them. But I can’t stay here and watch them destroy themselves, either.”
“We can’t get another nanny, sir,” Steven said gently. “We’ve burned through every agency in California. But… look, the house is a wreck. The kitchen is a disaster. The laundry is piled up. Maybe we just hire a housekeeper? Someone to handle the physical mess while you figure out the childcare?”
Jonathan looked out the window at the overgrown garden where a tricycle was currently floating in the fountain.
“Fine,” he whispered. “Get a cleaner. Just… get someone who won’t quit when they see the writing on the wall.”
Nora Delgado parked her rusted 2008 Honda Civic at the bottom of the Whitaker driveway because she was afraid the incline would kill her transmission.
She hiked up the long, tree-lined path, adjusting her backpack. Nora was twenty-five, living in a cramped apartment in National City with her grandmother. She spent her days scrubbing toilets and her nights studying child psychology at San Diego State.
She was tired. She was broke. She had a tuition payment due on Friday that was going to bounce if she didn’t get this job.
“Double pay,” the agency had said. “Hazard pay.”
Nora thought they were joking about the hazard pay.
When the heavy oak doors opened, she realized they weren’t.
The foyer of the Whitaker mansion was breathtaking architecture ruined by anarchy. A priceless Persian rug was covered in crushed cereal. The grand staircase was draped in toilet paper. A chandelier sparkled above a pile of broken dolls.
“Good luck,” the security guard muttered as he let her in. “Don’t make eye contact.”
Jonathan Whitaker met her in the hallway. He looked defeated.
“I’m Nora,” she said, extending a hand that was rough from bleach and hard work. “I’m here to clean.”
“I’m Jonathan,” he said, not shaking her hand, but looking at her with a mix of hope and apology. “Look, Nora. My daughters are… going through a hard time. If they bother you, just ignore them. Lock the door to the room you’re cleaning. I’ll pay you triple if you can just make the kitchen usable again.”
“Triple?” Nora asked.
“Cash,” Jonathan said.
“Show me the kitchen,” Nora said.
As she walked through the hallway, she felt eyes on her.
She looked up.
Standing on the landing of the grand staircase were six girls. They stood in a V-formation, like a military unit.
At the front was Hazel, twelve years old. She had her mother’s dark eyes, but they were cold as ice. Next to her were Brooke (ten) and Ivy (nine). Then June (eight). And finally, the twins, Cora and Mae (six).
Little Lena, the three-year-old, was hiding behind Hazel’s legs.
“You’re Number 38,” Hazel announced. Her voice didn’t sound like a child’s. It sounded like a judge delivering a death sentence.
“I’m not a nanny,” Nora said calmly, shifting her backpack. “I’m the housekeeper.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Ivy sneered. “You’ll be gone by sunset. The last one cried when we put the lizard in her purse.”
“I like lizards,” Nora lied. She didn’t smile. She didn’t frown. She just looked at them.
In her psychology classes, she learned about ‘acting out.’ These weren’t bad kids. These were kids who were screaming in pain, but the only language they knew was destruction. They were testing the boundaries of their world because the most important boundary—their mother’s protection—had vanished.
“I have work to do,” Nora said, turning her back on them.
That was the first shock for the Whitaker girls. Nannies usually tried to be their friend immediately, or they yelled. Nora did neither. She dismissed them.
Nora went into the kitchen. It was a disaster. Sticky syrup on the counters. A mountain of takeout boxes. It smelled of rotting fruit and neglect.
She put on her headphones, blasted some salsa music, and went to work.
For two hours, she scrubbed. She felt the girls watching her.
At one point, a half-eaten apple flew past her head and hit the wall.
Nora didn’t flinch. She picked up the apple, tossed it in the trash, and kept scrubbing the counter.
Ten minutes later, a glass of water was “accidentally” knocked over near her feet.
Nora grabbed a towel, wiped it up, and didn’t say a word.
The girls were confused. Their weapons weren’t working.
By 5:00 PM, the kitchen was gleaming. The stainless steel shone. The floor was spotless.
Nora opened the massive Sub-Zero refrigerator to wipe down the shelves. It was mostly empty—just bottles of expensive water, some beer, and endless containers of takeout.
But on the inside of the door, taped up with a magnet shaped like a sunflower, was a piece of paper.
It was yellowed and stained. The handwriting was elegant and loopy.
The Whitaker Family Menu Monday: Taco Night (Light on the spice for Lena!) Tuesday: Spaghetti Carbonara Wednesday: Mac & Cheese with the crumbled Ritz crackers (Jonathan’s favorite) Thursday: Leftovers Friday: Pizza!
Nora stared at the list. She touched the sunflower magnet.
She looked at the date on a calendar nearby. It was Wednesday.
Mac & Cheese with crumbled Ritz crackers.
Nora looked around the kitchen. The pantry was stocked with gourmet ingredients that no one used. She found pasta. She found cheddar. She found a box of Ritz crackers that was dusty.
She checked her watch. She was supposed to leave at 6:00.
She took off her backpack.
“Okay, Maribel,” she whispered to the empty room. “Let’s see what we can do.”
Upstairs, the girls were plotting.
“The silent treatment isn’t working,” Hazel hissed, pacing around her bedroom. “We need to go bigger. The bucket over the door?”
“Too cliché,” Ivy said.
“What if we cut the power?” Brooke suggested.
“I’m hungry,” little Lena whined.
“We have cold pizza,” Hazel snapped. “Eat that.”
“I don’t want pizza!” Lena cried. “I want… I want…” She couldn’t finish the sentence because she didn’t know how to ask for her mother.
Suddenly, a smell wafted up the stairs.
It wasn’t the smell of grease or takeout cardboard.
It was the smell of melted butter. Sharp cheddar. Warm pasta. Toasting breadcrumbs.
The girls froze.
It was a ghost smell.
“Do you smell that?” June whispered.
Hazel’s eyes went wide. She pushed past her sisters and ran out into the hallway.
They crept down the stairs, the scent getting stronger with every step. It pulled them like gravity. It smelled like safety. It smelled like before.
They reached the kitchen doorway and stopped.
The table was set. Not with paper plates, but with the good china. There were napkins folded into triangles.
And in the center of the table was a massive, bubbling casserole dish of golden Mac & Cheese, topped with a thick layer of golden-brown crumbled Ritz crackers.
Nora was standing by the sink, washing a pot. She wasn’t wearing her apron anymore.
“Sit,” Nora said. She didn’t ask.
The girls looked at Hazel. Hazel looked at the food. Her lip trembled.
“Who told you?” Hazel asked, her voice aggressive but shaky. “Who told you to make this?”
“The fridge told me,” Nora said simply. “It’s Wednesday.”
“My dad won’t eat this,” Hazel said. “He eats in his office. He doesn’t eat with us.”
“He will tonight,” Nora said.
She walked past the girls, out into the hallway, and up the stairs to the third floor. She knocked on the heavy oak door.
“Come in,” Jonathan grunted.
Nora opened the door. “Dinner is ready.”
Jonathan didn’t look up from his laptop. “I’ll have Steven order something later. I’m busy.”
“I didn’t order anything,” Nora said. “I cooked. It’s Wednesday. Mac and Cheese with crackers.”
Jonathan’s hands froze over the keyboard.
The silence in the room was heavy. He slowly looked up. His eyes were red.
“What did you say?”
“It was on the list,” Nora said softly. “In the fridge. Maribel’s list.”
Jonathan stood up. He looked terrified. “I haven’t… we haven’t had that since…”
“I know,” Nora said. “The girls are waiting.”
Jonathan walked past her. He moved like a man in a trance.
When he entered the kitchen, the girls were already sitting. They hadn’t touched the food. They were staring at the empty chair at the head of the table.
Jonathan sat down.
Nora came in and began to serve. She put a big scoop on Lena’s plate, then the twins, then up the line. Finally, she served Jonathan.
The steam rose up, carrying that specific, buttery scent.
Jonathan picked up his fork. His hand was shaking. He took a bite.
The crunch of the cracker. The creamy sauce.
He dropped his fork. It clattered against the china.
He put his hands over his face and began to sob.
It wasn’t a polite cry. It was a guttural, deep sound of a man who had been holding his breath for six months.
The girls looked terrified. They had never seen their father cry. He was the rock. He was the billionaire.
“Daddy?” Lena whispered.
Jonathan couldn’t stop. The dam had broken.
Then, Hazel stood up. The general. The tough one.
She walked over to her father and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“It’s okay, Daddy,” she cried, tears streaming down her own face. “I miss her too.”
Then Ivy got up. Then the twins.
Within seconds, the six girls were piled onto their father, a tangled mess of crying, hugging humans.
Nora stood by the sink, invisible. She wiped a tear from her own cheek. She missed her sister every day, but she knew that grief had to be let out, or it would rot you from the inside.
After a long time, the crying subsided. Sniffles replaced sobs.
Jonathan took a deep breath and wiped his face with a napkin. He looked at his daughters. Really looked at them, for the first time in months. He saw their unbrushed hair, their mismatched clothes, their pain.
He looked at Nora.
“You,” he croaked. “Who are you?”
“I’m Nora,” she said. “I’m a psych student. And I’m a pretty good cook.”
“You’re not a housekeeper,” Jonathan said.
“I can be,” Nora shrugged. “But I think you need more than clean floors.”
Hazel looked at Nora. The hostility was gone.
“Can you stay?” Hazel asked. It was a small voice. “Just… until we finish eating?”
“I can stay,” Nora said.
Two Weeks Later
The Whitaker mansion looked different.
There were still toys on the floor, but the graffiti was gone. The windows were open, letting in the ocean breeze.
Jonathan Whitaker was home early from work. He was in the yard, pushing Lena on the swing.
Nora sat on the patio, reviewing her flashcards for her midterm.
“Nora!” the twins shouted, running up to her with a piece of paper. “Look! We drew you!”
Nora looked at the drawing. It showed six girls, a tall man, and a woman with curly hair holding a mop in one hand and a heart in the other.
Jonathan walked over, holding Lena. He looked younger. He had shaved. He was smiling.
“Steven tells me the agency called,” Jonathan said. “They want to know if we’re ready for Nanny Number 38.”
Nora laughed. “What did you tell them?”
“I told them we don’t need a nanny,” Jonathan said. “We have Nora.”
He sat down on the bench opposite her.
“I know you’re studying,” he said seriously. “I know you want to be a psychologist. But… I was hoping you could do your residency here. With us. We’ll pay for your tuition. We’ll work around your schedule. Just… don’t leave.”
Nora looked at the girls running in the grass. She looked at the house that was finally starting to feel like a home.
“I still have to clean the bathrooms,” Nora warned. “That’s extra.”
Jonathan laughed. It was a real, deep belly laugh.
“Deal.”
Nora didn’t know if she would stay forever. But for now, looking at the family that had put itself back together over a plate of macaroni and cheese, she knew she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
Number 38 wasn’t a nanny. She was the one who stayed.
THE END
