Daphne’s POV
Maya's application sits at the top of the stack, and I don't know why I keep returning to it.
I've read it four times now. The credentials are excellent but not suspiciously perfect—a degree in child development, three years with a family in Connecticut, two years with a single mother in Boston.
The references check out with the kind of warm, specific praise that can't be faked. 'Maya was wonderful with our son's anxiety. She never made him feel broken.'
The cover letter is professional without being sterile, mentioning a genuine love for children that somehow doesn't read as performative.
Something about it feels right. After days of wrong, I am desperate for right.
And the interview confirms my instincts.
Maya arrives at precisely two o'clock—not early enough to seem anxious, not late enough to suggest carelessness.
Her handshake is firm when I greet her at the door, her eyes direct, meeting mine without the calculating flicker I've learned to recognize.
"Mrs. Hale, thank you for taking the time to meet with me." Her voice is warm but not syrupy. "I know how important this decision must be for your family."
"Please, call me Daphne." I lead her to the sitting room. "Can I offer you something to drink? Water, coffee, tea?"
"Water would be lovely, thank you."
I pour us both glasses and settle into the chair across from her. "So, Maya. Tell me about your experience with the Harrison family in Connecticut. Three years is a significant commitment."
"It was. Their son, Oliver, was five when I started and eight when I left." She sets her water down carefully. "He had severe separation anxiety—his father traveled frequently for work, and every departure triggered days of regression. My job wasn't just childcare. It was helping him build coping mechanisms, teaching him that people could leave and still come back."
"That sounds challenging. What made you leave?"
"His father took a permanent position overseas, and the whole family relocated to London." A small smile crosses her face. "Oliver sent me a letter last month. He's doing wonderfully. Started a robotics club at his new school."
"You stayed in touch?"
"Children aren't temporary to me, Mrs... Daphne." She corrects herself smoothly. "When I commit to a family, I commit fully. The relationship doesn't end just because employment does."
I find myself leaning forward.
"My daughters are four. Twins. Nina is... spirited. She has opinions about everything and isn't shy about sharing them. Lisa is quieter, more observant. She notices patterns that adults miss and can become overwhelmed in chaotic environments. How would you approach two children with such different needs?"
Maya considers the question—actually considers it, not just waiting for her turn to speak.
"I'd start by learning their individual rhythms. What calms Lisa when she's overstimulated? What channels Nina's energy productively? Children aren't problems to be solved with one-size-fits-all solutions. They're people who deserve to be understood on their own terms."
"And if their needs conflict? If Nina wants noise and activity while Lisa needs quiet?"
"Then I'd create space for both. Designated quiet zones Lisa can retreat to, structured activities that give Nina an outlet without overwhelming her sister. And I'd teach them to communicate with each other—to recognize and respect their differences rather than resent them."
Before I can respond, the door swings open.
Nina stands in the doorway, her dark hair escaping its braids, her expression announcing that she has arrived and expects to be acknowledged.
"Mommy, I need juice. The purple kind. William doesn't know where it is."
"Nina, sweetheart, Mommy's in a meeting right now—"
But Maya is already moving. She slides off the chair and crouches to Nina's level, putting them eye to eye.
"Hi there. I'm Maya. I was just talking to your mom about how much I'd like to meet you and your sister."
Nina studies her with unfiltered assessment. "Are you going to be our new Sarah?"
"I don't know yet. That's what your mom and I are figuring out." Maya tilts her head. "What's your favorite flavor of juice? You said purple, but I'm curious—is that grape, or something else?"
"It's the berry one. It looks purple but it's actually mixed berries. Lisa likes apple, but apple is boring." Nina's eyes narrow thoughtfully. "Do you like mixed berries?"
"I do. Though I'm also partial to mango when I can find it."
"Mango is weird."
"That's fair. Everyone's taste is different. That's what makes things interesting, right?"
Nina considers this, then grins. "I like you. You're not pretending-nice like the other ladies."
Something warm spreads through my chest. I glance toward the doorway and see Lisa hovering there, her watchful eyes taking in every detail. Maya notices too.
She doesn't approach, doesn't push. She simply offers a small wave and a smile, then turns back to Nina.
"Should we go find that juice together?"
"It's in the back of the fridge," Nina announces, already grabbing Maya's hand. "Behind the yogurt. Come on, I'll show you."
They disappear down the hallway, Nina's chatter echoing behind them. Lisa lingers a moment longer, studying me with those ancient eyes. Then she slips away silently, following at a distance.
By the end of the hour, something has loosened in my chest.
This one. This is the one.
That evening, I tell Xander over dinner. He listens carefully while I describe the interview—Maya's thoughtfulness, her genuine connection with Nina, the way even Lisa hadn't retreated.
"And her references all checked out?" he asks. "No red flags?"
"None. The families raved about her. One mother actually got emotional talking about how much Maya meant to their son."
He nods slowly. "Then hire her."
"Just like that? You don't want to meet her first?"
"I trust your judgment." He says it simply, like it's obvious. "You've been interviewing candidates for days. You know what wrong looks like. If your gut says she's right, then she's right."
The simplicity of that trust makes my throat tight. "Xander, I... thank you."
"You don't have to thank me for believing in you." His voice is quiet. "I've watched you handle everything life has thrown at you for five years. You think I don't know you can read people? You're the best judge of character I've ever met."
Before I can respond, the door creaks open.
Two small figures stand in the doorway. Nina in her unicorn pajamas, Lisa clutching her worn blanket. Nina's lower lip trembles.
"Mommy? Can we sleep with you tonight?"
I open my arms immediately. "What's wrong, sweetheart? Come here, tell me."
"I had a bad dream," Nina whispers, already climbing onto the bed, burrowing into my side. "About a shadow man watching our house. He was standing outside the window and his eyes were all wrong and he kept saying he knew where we lived."
My blood turns to ice. I keep my voice steady through sheer force of will. "There's no shadow man, baby. You're safe. It was just a dream."
"But it felt real, Mommy. It felt so real."
"I know, sweetheart. Bad dreams always feel real. But that's all they are—just dreams. Daddy and I would never let anyone hurt you."
Lisa follows silently, tucking herself against my other side with the precision of a child who has calculated exactly where she fits best.
Xander shifts to make room, his large frame somehow folding to accommodate two small bodies and the woman he loves.
For a moment, we're a tangle of limbs and warmth—Nina's head on my shoulder, Lisa's small hand curled in Xander's shirt, the four of us pressed together like survivors of a shipwreck clinging to the same raft.
"Daddy?" Lisa's voice is barely audible. "Will you stay?"
Something shifts in Xander's expression—something raw and wondering, as though he still can't quite believe he gets to be here, gets to be called that, gets to be needed.
"Always," he says, his voice thick. "I'll always stay."
Nina is asleep within minutes, her breathing evening out against my neck. Lisa takes longer, her eyes tracking patterns on the ceiling, her lips moving silently as she counts something only she can see.
But eventually she drifts too, her grip on Xander's shirt never loosening.
I meet Xander's eyes over our daughters' heads. We don't need words. Just this moment, this family, this fragile perfect thing we've built together.