Her hair had somehow turned bright green.
Beatriz and Bianca stood at the upstairs window laughing.
I watched the woman get into her taxi.
Then I closed my eyes.
Thirty-seven.
Thirty-seven women had entered my house.
Thirty-seven had left.
And every one of them had said some version of the same thing.
“Those girls don’t need a nanny.”
“They need their mother.”
But their mother was dead.
And I couldn’t bring her back.
That afternoon, my assistant Augusto entered my office carrying a folder.
He looked exhausted.
“Mr. Mendoza.”
I didn’t look up.
“What?”
“There are no agencies left.”
I finally raised my eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we’ve contacted every agency willing to work with us.”
“And?”
“They’ve refused.”
I leaned back in my chair.
“All of them?”
Augusto nodded.
“Apparently, you’re officially considered an impossible placement.”
I looked toward the window.
Outside, six children were supposed to be playing in the garden.
