Page 141 of Nine Week Nanny

Moving into the kitchen, I clear a space on the counter, shoving aside empty boxes and shipping labels. Among the mess, I find a small plain box that's perfect. It's sturdy enough to protect the delicate chain.

I can't just throw it in an envelope. This matters too much.

My hands shake slightly as I line the box with tissue paper, creating a soft nest. Gently, I place the azabache necklace inside, arranging the chain so it won't tangle, treating it with the reverence of a holy relic.

In many ways, it is one.

I pull a piece of paper from my notebook and grip my pen tightly. What do I even say?

After a deep breath, I begin writing:

I found this while unpacking. It was Lennon's mom's, and something he treasures. I'm sorry I didn't realize I had it and didn't return it sooner. Please make sure he gets it. -S

My handwriting wavers but remains legible. No need for more explanation. No need to reopen old wounds. Just get the necklace back where it belongs.

I fold the note precisely, tuck it into the box beside the necklace, and seal it with clear packing tape.

The sound of tape pulling and snapping is jarring in the quiet apartment, each tear like a small finality.

The Sharpie is heavy in my hand as I write Pope's address on the front of the box. My pulse hammers with every letter.

POPE CARRIGAN

Writing his name sends a jolt through my chest, awakening pain I thought I'd managed to bury.

It's just a name, I tell myself. Just letters on a box.

But it isn't just that. It's everything we were, everything I lost.

I run my finger over his name, the ink still wet enough to smudge slightly.

The package, once sealed, sits heavy in my hands, far heavier than its size suggests. This tiny box contains months of memories, both beautiful and painful. It's the last physical connection I have to them both.

It's Lennon's connection to his mother.

I never imagined that packing the necklace would be like cutting into myself, reopening a wound that had only just started to scab over. It's the final act that will sever our connection, a symbol I didn't even know I had.

The November sun hangs heavy as I walk the cracked sidewalk. Heat radiates off the concrete like it’s still late summer.

My black apron strap digs into my shoulder, the fabric clinging to my arm in the lingering humidity. Finch & Fifth is a block ahead, its faded awning just visible past the rows of parked cars.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I tug it free, smiling when I see Maris’s name.

“Hey, you,” I answer, shifting my tote bag higher against my hip.

“Hey, yourself,” she says, a little out of breath. “I’m on break and thought I’d check in. How’s it going?”

I glance up at the awning again. “I’m good. Walking to work. Lunch shift today at Finch & Fifth. You know, server extraordinaire.”

“Hey, we do what we have to do.” There’s no judgment in her tone, just curiosity. She was the one who did waitressing jobs through grad school. I was the babysitter. I've had my fill there, so waiting tables it is.

“Yeah.” I laugh softly, sweat sliding down between my shoulder blades. “It’s fine. Not where I want to be, but it works for now. It affords me my own place until something comes.”

Before she can reply, a beep cuts into the line. “Hang on, Maris. I need to grab this. It could be one of the places I sent my résumé to. Can I grab it and call you when I get off?”

“Of course. Go. Fingers crossed,” she says.

I click over. “Hello?”