The Puck’s Bunny

Ch.2

EROS

Claire Dawson.

I sat at my desk in the home office on the third floor, her personnel file displayed on my laptop, a glass of untouched scotch resting next to the keyboard. The Manhattan skyline glowed orange through the window behind me, and I could hear Mrs. Parker downstairs wrapping up Chloe's dinner routine. Everything was in place. Everything was under control.

I brought her file up on the screen and reviewed it once more.

Claire Essel Dawson. Twenty-five years old. Born and raised in Queens. Attended public school but dropped out after just one semester. The notes in her file indicated "family obligation" as the reason for her departure. No criminal history. No, concerning social media activity. A professional reference from the preschool in the Bronx where she served as a teaching assistant. A personal reference from a professor who characterized her as 'tenacious, compassionate, and occasionally stubborn.'

Stubborn. I could believe that part.

Twenty-five was a constant nagging thought. It loomed in the center of her resume like a pebble in a shoe. Women in their mid-twenties made inquiries for a living. They delved into matters. They searched for narratives where none were expected. Meanwhile, I have spent the last five years constructing barriers specifically to keep women like that at bay.

I picked up my phone and made a call.

"Mrs. Parker. It's Eros."

"Mr. Asante." Her tone was sharp and professional. "I trust the interview went well?"

"She's in her mid-twenties. You didn't highlight that."

There was a brief silence. "Miss Dawson's educational credentials are included in her file, which I sent to you beforehand. Her qualifications as a childcare provider are strong, and she passed all the screenings I performed. Her age is not pertinent to the role."

"Nothing is unimportant when someone is living in my home with access to my daughter.

"With all due respect, Mr. Asante, you have turned down candidates for wearing inappropriate shoes, for sneezing during tours, and for smiling too broadly. Miss Dawson is the most qualified candidate, and I highly recommend that you consider giving her a trial period."

I hung up without a farewell. Mrs. Parker was accustomed to it.

The scotch remained there, soaking up the last rays of daylight. I left it untouched and shut the laptop. Below me, the penthouse buzzed with its usual tranquility. Mrs. Parker was finishing up in the kitchen. The soft padding of Chloe's socked feet echoed somewhere on the second floor. The distant hiss of city traffic could be heard forty stories below.

This was the rhythm of my life. Predictable. Controlled. Safe.

Six nannies in three years. Mrs. Parker never mentioned the true reason they left. Not the rules, not my challenging reputation, not even Chloe's silence. They departed because living in this apartment felt like being inside a glass box. Beautiful from the outside. Suffocating from within.

I was aware of that. I just didn't know how to change it.

The first nanny, a kind woman from Connecticut, lasted five months. She tried everything with Chloe. Flash cards, sing-alongs, puppet shows. She approached Chloe's silence as a problem to be fixed, and when she couldn't, she took it to heart. She cried in the laundry room when she thought I couldn't hear.

The second caregiver, a straightforward British woman, lasted for three months. She was skilled but emotionally distant. Chloe avoided her completely. I caught Chloe sleeping beneath her bed on two occasions, curled around her stuffed bear as if trying to vanish.

The other caregivers blended into one another. Perhaps I was being unreasonable. Maybe my expectations were too high, my rules too strict, and my inability to trust anyone with my daughter was an issue I should have brought up with the therapist I had stopped seeing.

Or perhaps the world had given me ample reasons to keep my defenses up.

I pushed away from the desk and made my way downstairs.

The second floor was serene. Chloe's bedroom door stood ajar, the nightlight casting a soft yellow hue across the carpet. I paused in the doorway, observing her for a moment. She sat on the floor in her pajamas, cross-legged, engrossed in her sketchbook with a set of colored pencils. Her dark hair fell over her face, and the stuffed bear leaned against her knee like an audience member.

"Hey, sugar." I kept my tone gentle. Chloe was not easily startled, but I never wanted to be the cause of her flinching. "Time for bed, okay?"

She glanced up at me. Those brown eyes, her mother's eyes, searched my face as they always did. Looking for something. I never knew what it was, and I was scared to find out.

She nodded and capped her pencils one by one, arranging them neatly. She was always so meticulous. I accompanied her to the bathroom and stood in the doorway while she brushed her teeth. She did it with precision, just as I had shown her. Once she was done, she rinsed, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and glanced up at me in the mirror.

"Good job," I said.

She held my gaze in the reflection for a moment, then walked past me toward her room.

This was our routine. Efficient. Quiet. Two people who loved each other communicating through a series of nods, gestures, and carefully maintained silences. Her therapist mentioned that the selective mutism stemmed from trauma. Chloe's voice would return when she felt secure enough. I needed to be patient.

Patient. I'm the king of hockey in the arena. I command my teammates to concentrate and win games with just three sentences. Yet, I can't seem to make my five-year-old daughter feel safe enough to speak, and that failure weighs heavily on my chest every single night, like a burden I can't lift.

I tucked her in, pulling the blanket up to her chin, just the way she liked it. I placed the bear next to her pillow, checked the nightlight, the monitor, and the window lock.

"Goodnight, sugar," I said, pressing a kiss on her forehead. "I love you."

Chloe's hand reached up to touch my cheek. One pat, two pats. Her way of saying, "I love you too." I learned to interpret her gestures. It was enough.

I straightened up and turned toward the door, standing there watching the gentle rise and fall of Chloe's small shoulders beneath the blanket.

Claire Dawson.

Twenty-five years old. She has a sharp tongue and offers my daughter a smile that she keeps from me, as if I haven't earned it. She's either precisely what Chloe needs or exactly what I can't afford. My past suggests that these two possibilities often overlap.

I reflected on how she sat in the armchair, her back straight, chin raised, maintaining eye contact with me. I considered the way she interacted with Chloe. No baby talk. No condescension. Just a calm, sincere warmth directed at a child who hasn't experienced that from a stranger in quite some time.

Monday. Claire Dawson would show up in her inexpensive shoes, unafraid, and she would either adhere to my rules, care for my daughter, and keep professional boundaries, or she would fail like all the others.

I switched off the overhead light, left the door ajar by six inches, just as she liked it, and returned to my office.

The scotch remained. I drank it this time, standing by the window as the city blazed below me.

Monday.

I would give her two weeks. Then we would see.