“I’m not sure what you’re implying.” “Nothing,” Vanessa touched his arm. “Just that people talk. There was a photo of you all at the farmers market last week. The boys holding her hands, you pushing the cart. It looked very domestic. We were buying groceries. Of course, Vanessa said, but you know how people are.
A young woman, a widowerower, three impressionable children. She trailed off meaningfully. Harrison cleared his throat. What Vanessa means is maybe consider the optics. For the boy’s sake, Benjamin’s voice went cold. The boys are happy for the first time in 8 months. That’s the only optic I care about. He walked away, his hands shaking.
But over the next week, the whispers grew louder. Someone wrote a blind item in the local society column. Which widowed tech titan is getting too comfortable with the help? A photo appeared online. Jane and the boys at the playground laughing. The caption read, “Nanny,” or something more.
Then the call came from Brookfield Academy, the private preschool where he’d enrolled Rick, Nick, and Mick for the fall. The headm’s voice was apologetic, but firm. Given the recent attention, and considering the sensitivity of our other family’s concerns, perhaps it’s best if the boys start next semester instead. Benjamin gripped the phone. You’re rejecting my sons because of gossip.
We’re protecting all our students from unnecessary scrutiny. My children are being punished for having someone who loves them. Mr. Scott, please understand. Benjamin hung up. His chest felt like it was caving in. Not because of the school. He could find another school, but because he knew what this meant. Jane would hear about this. She’d see the articles.
She’d know she was the reason his sons were being rejected. And she’d leave. He drove home faster than he should have, his mind racing. When he got there, he went straight to Jane’s room in the guest cottage. The door was open and she was packing. Her suitcase lay open on the bed, half filled with clothes.
She moved mechanically, folding shirts, placing them inside. Benjamin stood in the doorway. Frozen Jane, she turned. Her eyes were red. I can’t stay, she said quietly. I’ve become the problem. Don’t. Benjamin’s voice came out rough, almost desperate. Jane kept folding clothes, her hands trembling. I have to. Your sons were rejected from school because of me.
Because of gossip, because of people who don’t matter. They matter to Rick, Nick, and Mick. Her voice cracked. They’re going to grow up hearing whispers. They’re going to be punished because I forgot my place. Your place? Benjamin stepped into the room. Your place is with my sons.
Jane shook her head, tears falling onto the shirt in her hands. I’m the maid, Benjamin. That’s all I was supposed to be. You stopped being the maid the day my son started laughing again. Then what am I? She turned to face him, her eyes fierce and broken. What am I supposed to be to them? To you? Benjamin opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat. Jane let out a bitter laugh. You can’t even say it because the truth is, I’m black.
I’m young. I’m staff. And people will always make assumptions. Your sons will pay the price their whole lives if I stay. Let them assume. I don’t care what they think. You should care. Her voice rose. Rick, Nick, and Mick deserve better than being the center of scandal. They deserve better than than what? Than someone who loves them.
Than the only person who made this house feel like home again. The silence between them was electric. Jane sat down on the edge of the bed, her shoulders dropping. When Hope died, she whispered, “I promised myself I’d never love another child because losing her almost killed me.” “But your boys,” she looked up at him, tears streaming. “I couldn’t help it.
And now I have to leave before loving them destroys me.” Benjamin knelt in front of her, his heart pounding so hard it hurt. “What if you didn’t have to leave? The scandal? What if I told the truth publicly? What if I made it clear you’re not just staff?” Jane’s eyes searched his face.
What truth? That you’re essential? That my children need you? He stopped, swallowed hard. That I need you, too. Her breath caught. Benjamin, not as a maid, not as a nanny. As someone who understands this grief, someone who sits in the dark with me when I can’t sleep. Someone who brought light back into a house that was dying. I’m not her, Jane whispered. I’ll never be Amanda.
I know, Benjamin’s voice broke. And I’m not asking you to be. I’m just asking you to stay because when I think about you leaving, when I think about this house without you in it, I can’t breathe. Jane covered her face with her hands, sobbing. Benjamin stayed on his knees, waiting, terrified she’d say no. Finally, she looked at him. If I stay, it can’t be like this.
I won’t hide. I won’t pretend to be less than I am. I don’t want you to. Your world won’t accept me. Then my world needs to change. Jane stared at him for a long moment, something shifting in her eyes. I’ll stay, she said quietly. But not as your employee, as myself. All of myself. I wouldn’t want it any other way. She stood and he stood with her. For a moment, they just looked at each other.
Two broken people who’d found something fragile and real in the wreckage. Jane reached out and unpacked her suitcase, and Benjamin finally breathed. The week after Jane unpacked her suitcase, something shifted in Benjamin. He stopped hiding.
He’d scheduled an interview with the Wall Street Journal weeks ago, standard publicity for a new product launch. His PR team had prepared talking points about cloud infrastructure and market expansion. Safe topics, corporate topics. But when the reporter arrived at his office, Benjamin had different plans. Diana Chen sat across from him, recorder running, asking the expected questions. Benjamin answered them automatically, his mind somewhere else. Then Diana paused, glancing at her notes. Mr.
Scott, if I may shift gears, there’s been some public interest in your personal life lately. Would you care to comment? His PR director, standing by the door, gave a sharp shake of his head. Don’t engage. Benjamin ignored him. What specifically? He asked. Diana hesitated. The speculation about your relationship with your children’s caregiver. The old Benjamin would have said no comment.
Would have ended the interview right there. But sitting in that chair, he thought about Jane packing her suitcase, about his son’s faces when they thought she might leave. About Rick, whispering to Amanda’s grave that Jane didn’t get sad when they talked about their mother. “Yes,” Benjamin said. “I’d like to comment.” Diana’s eyebrows rose.
“Jane Morrison is the reason my sons are alive in the ways that matter,” Benjamin said, his voice steady. After their mother died, they stopped talking, stopped playing, stopped being children. I hired specialists, therapists, tried everything money could buy. Nothing worked. And then then Jane showed up. She didn’t try to fix them. She just loved them. She got on her hands and knees and played horse.
She read them stories. She sat with them through nightmares. She gave them permission to heal. Some have suggested the relationship is inappropriate, Diana said carefully. Benjamin’s jaw tightened. Some people see a young black woman caring for three white children and automatically assume something improper.
That says more about them than it does about her. So, the relationship is strictly professional. Benjamin paused. This was the moment. Jane Morrison is family. He said, “She’s not their mother. No one could replace Amanda, but she’s someone they love, someone they need, and I won’t apologize for having her in our lives. Even if it costs opportunities for your sons.
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