Page 131 of Nine Week Nanny

“You’ve become his safe place. He doesn’t need to tell him that. You can see it in his face. He trusts you.”

I grip the edge of the desk, knuckles white.

“I hate that it’s like this,” she says. “I hate that I can’t give him what he needs yet. But I also know what I’m seeing. And so does the court. You’re more than just the half-brother right now. You’re his anchor.”

Her words lodge deep. I can’t answer.

“Camila, this isn’t fair. Are you saying you don’t want him?”

“No, don’t twist it like that. I’d never say that. I’m just… trying to take myself out of it for a second. If what’s best for him isn’t me right now, then I have to admit that.”

“I’m in no position to raise a child.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you’re already doing it.”

Silence hums down the line. My jaw ticks, my chest heavy.

Her voice breaks on the last words. “Thank you, Pope. For keeping him steady when I can’t.”

The call ends.

I sit there staring at the final order Warren left behind, my pulse loud in my ears.

I shove Warren’s packet into a drawer and stand, rolling the tension out of my shoulders. The office is quiet, the hum of the air vent the only sound, but at least it isn’t my kitchen table anymore.

When I step into the hall, Steve Bellamy is fiddling with the lock on the suite next door. He glances up and grins. “Well, look who finally made it back.”

“It's good to be back in here,” I admit. “Better than staring at the same four walls at my home office.”

Steve shakes his head. “Never thought it would take over two months. Water doesn’t look like much at first, but once it gets in the walls, the sheetrock, rewiring, and mold remediation are a nightmare. Spreads faster than you can believe.”

“Tell me about it,” I mutter.

He chuckles, shoulders lifting. “At least it’s all behind us. Welcome back to civilization.”

I clap him on the shoulder in parting, then head for the elevator.

Outside, the heat grabs me when I leave the cool air of the office building and cross the parking lot to the car.

The drive home is muscle memory. I barely notice the stoplights, the turns. My head’s still full of Camila’s voice, of the way she saidyou’re his anchorlike it was some undeniable truth.

When I push through the front door, the house is quiet at first. Then I catch voices from down the hall. It's Margaret’s soft and coaxing, Lennon’s small in a way that guts me.

“Come on, sweetheart, just one more page,” she’s saying.

“I don’t want to.” His tone is flat, nothing like the boy the court thinks is thriving.

I pause in the foyer, keys still in my hand.

“You used to love reading with Miss Sloane.”

Silence. Then, barely above a whisper: “I don’t want to read anymore.”

The words scrape through me, jagged and sharp.

I lean against the wall, pressing my thumb hard against my temple. The reports, the evaluations, the judge’s comments, they all painted a picture of progress. But this is what’s real. Lennon is slipping backwards.

He’s quieter, smaller now. He’s missing her.