Her body tensed against the floor. The twins, sensitive as radar to ambient tension, stopped laughing instantly. Their faces went from euphoria to terror in a fraction of a second. Santi, who was lying on the nanny’s stomach, lost his footing as he turned his head sharply toward the door. His little legs gave way. The baby tilted dangerously to the right, toward the hardwood floor. “Watch out!” Roberto shouted, taking a step forward, but he was too far away to reach him in time.
But Elena didn’t need to arrive. She was already there. Her reflexes weren’t those of a distracted employee; they were those of a lioness. Before Roberto could finish his exclamation, Elena had already released the ankles, and her hands—those hands with ridiculous yellow gloves—springed off like springs. With her right hand, she caught Santi in midair, cradling his head against her chest before he hit the ground, and with her left arm, she encircled Nico’s waist, pulling him close in a protective embrace.
In one fluid motion, she rolled onto her back and sat on the floor with both children clutched to her chest, panting. The twins, now safe but infected by the sudden fear that had filled the room, burst into tears in unison, a high-pitched cry of panic that pierced Roberto’s ears. Roberto strode across the room, his face contorted with rage. “Let go of my children,” he ordered, reaching them and roughly snatching Nico from the nanny’s arms.
Let them go right now. Elena lay on the floor, her hands trembling and empty, staring up at the ceiling. She brushed a strand of hair from her face with the back of her yellow glove, her large, dark eyes filled with a mixture of fear and confusion. “Mr. Roberto, you were supposed to be…” she stammered, trying to catch her breath. “I was supposed to be away on a trip,” he interrupted, his voice echoing off the high walls. “And thank God I came back.”
Can anyone tell me what kind of madness this is? Roberto was holding Nico, who was writhing in his arms, reaching his little hands toward Elena and crying, “Na, nana.” His son’s rejection was like a physical slap in the face to Roberto. He clumsily placed the child on the sofa and turned to Elena, who was beginning to get up with difficulty. “Don’t get up,” he snapped, pointing an accusing finger at her. “Stay where you belong, on the floor. Do you have any idea what could have happened?”
One more centimeter. And my son would have cracked his head open on the coffee table. Sir, I had him under control,” Elena tried to explain, her voice breaking, but maintaining a strange dignity. She never let them fall. We were doing exercises. Roberto let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “You call that exercise.” I saw her. She was sprawled out like an animal, wearing those filthy toilet-cleaning gloves, letting my sons trample her like she was an old piece of furniture. The gloves are new, sir.
I only use them to play with the color. They like yellow. It helps them focus their eyes, she said quickly, trying to appeal to reason. I’m not interested in your cheap daycare excuses. Roberto ran his hand through his hair, messing it up for the first time in years. The image of the children laughing at her and crying with him was eating him up inside. I pay her a salary she wouldn’t earn in 10 years anywhere else.
I pay her to take care of them, to raise them, to teach them manners and safety, not to put on a circus act in my living room. Roberto looked around as if searching for witnesses to the atrocity. Look at you, it’s pathetic. A woman her age wallowing in it. What would people think if they walked in right now? What would my wife think if she saw the woman in charge of her children treating them like toys? The mention of his deceased wife was a low blow.
Elena lowered her gaze, biting her lower lip to keep from crying in front of him. She knew she shouldn’t answer. She needed the job. Her sick mother depended on that salary. But Santi’s cries, as he crawled toward her on the floor, clinging to her uniformed leg, gave her a strength she didn’t know she possessed. “Sir,” Elena said, her tone changing. It was no longer apologetic, but a mother’s plea. Santi was laughing. Nico was laughing.
They hadn’t laughed like that in months. He didn’t hear the laughter. “Hysteria isn’t happiness, Elena,” Roberto bellowed, blind to the truth. “Disorder isn’t joy. You’ve confused freedom with license. You’ve put my children’s physical safety at risk for a stupid game. You’re irresponsible.” Roberto bent down to take Santi away from Elena’s leg. The baby clung tightly to the blue fabric of the uniform, crying desperately, burying his face in the nanny’s knee.
Roberto had to use force to pry his own son’s fingers free from the maid’s clothing. “Come here,” Roberto growled, lifting Santi up. The boy kicked and pounded his tiny fists against his father’s chest, rejecting the touch of the 1000 suit and reaching for the arms of the woman in the rubber gloves. That was the last straw. Roberto felt a pang of jealousy so sharp it blurred his vision. “Get out of my sight,” Roberto hissed, holding the crying child in his arms.
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