Chapter Eight: KIRA TALKS ABOUT XENIA
1016 Words
Eli
If someone had asked me what I planned to do on my first Saturday home, my answer would have involved catching up on paperwork, reviewing reports, and possibly getting a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.
Instead, I found myself sitting cross-legged on the living room floor while my six-year-old daughter conducted what felt suspiciously like a presentation.
The topic?
Miss Kingsley.
“Daddy.”
I looked up from the report in my hands.
“Yes?”
Kira sat across from me with the seriousness of a military commander preparing to deliver critical intelligence.
“Nanny almost burned the kitchen.”
I lowered the report.
“Almost?”
“Only a little.”
“Define a little.”
Kira thought about it.
“The smoke alarm was involved.”
I closed my eyes briefly.
Of course it was.
“When?”
“Tuesday.”
“And nobody thought to tell me?”
Kira shrugged.
“Nanny said it was under control.”
That somehow made me less confident.
A lot less.
I set the report aside.
This conversation was clearly more important.
Kira immediately brightened.
“Also, Nanny forgot where she put her phone.”
“That’s not unusual.”
“She looked for it for one whole hour.”
I wasn’t surprised.
Miss Kingsley misplaced things with alarming consistency.
“Where was it?”
Kira grinned.
“In her pocket.”
I stared at my daughter.
My daughter stared back.
Then both of us laughed.
“That’s happened before, hasn’t it?”
“Three times.”
That number felt low.
The front door opened somewhere down the hall.
Kira’s eyes immediately lit up.
“Nanny!”
She jumped to her feet and ran before I could say anything.
A moment later, I heard voices in the entryway.
Then laughter.
Then more laughter.
I shook my head.
The house had become significantly louder since Miss Kingsley entered our lives.
Not necessarily a bad thing.
Just… noticeable.
A few seconds later, Kira returned dragging Miss Kingsley by the hand.
Miss Kingsley looked mildly horrified.
“Baby, I have legs.”
“Come sit.”
“I am sitting.”
“You are standing.”
Miss Kingsley sighed dramatically.
Then sat beside Kira.
“Happy?”
“Very.”
Kira turned toward me.
“Daddy, tell Nanny what you said.”
I frowned.
“What did I say?”
“About the phone.”
Miss Kingsley’s face immediately changed.
“Oh no.”
I already disliked that reaction.
“What?”
She pointed at Kira.
“Baby.”
Kira grinned.
The kind of grin that meant trouble.
“Nanny lost her phone.”
“I know.”
“Three times.”
“I know.”
Miss Kingsley groaned.
Kira continued mercilessly.
“One time it was in her pocket.”
The room fell silent.
I looked at Miss Kingsley.
She looked everywhere except at me.
Interesting.
“So that’s true.”
“It happened one time.”
Kira gasped.
“It happened three times.”
Miss Kingsley covered her face.
I shouldn’t have found this amusing.
Yet somehow I did.
“You looked for it for an hour?”
“No.”
Kira immediately pointed at her.
“Lie.”
“Baby!”
“You said honesty is important.”
I looked away before either of them noticed the corner of my mouth twitching.
Miss Kingsley sighed.
“Fine. Maybe it was one hour.”
“One hour and twelve minutes,” Kira corrected.
The betrayal on Miss Kingsley’s face was almost impressive.
“I tell you all my secrets.”
“You tell me everything.”
“Exactly.”
For a moment, the room filled with laughter.
Simple.
Uncomplicated.
Normal.
The kind of normal I’d spent years forgetting existed.
Miss Kingsley eventually stood.
“I should start dinner.”
“I can help,” Kira announced.
Miss Kingsley looked alarmed.
“No.”
“Why?”
“The last time you helped, we almost set a towel on fire.”
“That was one time.”
“One time too many.”
Kira huffed.
Then marched after her anyway.
I watched them disappear into the kitchen.
A moment later, I heard Kira talking.
Then Miss Kingsley answering.
Then Kira talking again.
Then Miss Kingsley laughing.
I picked up my report.
Tried reading it.
Failed.
The words blurred together.
Not because the report was difficult.
Because my attention kept drifting toward the kitchen.
Toward the familiar voices.
Toward the strange warmth that had settled over the estate these past two years.
Kira had always been happy.
But she’d been happier since Miss Kingsley arrived.
Louder.
Brighter.
More confident.
The difference was impossible to miss.
“Daddy!”
I looked up.
Kira appeared in the doorway.
Flour covered one side of her face.
I didn’t even want to know how.
“What happened?”
She smiled proudly.
“We are making cookies.”
That explained absolutely nothing.
Before I could ask another question, she disappeared again.
I stared at the doorway.
Then at the report.
Then back at the doorway.
The report lost.
Completely.
For the next hour, I listened to Kira tell Miss Kingsley stories, ask impossible questions, and somehow turn cookie baking into a full-scale military operation.
And through it all, Miss Kingsley listened.
Patiently.
The way she always did.
No matter how many questions Kira asked.
No matter how chaotic things became.
No matter how exhausting the day was.
She always listened.
Maybe that was why Kira talked about her so much.
Not because Miss Kingsley was perfect.
Far from it.
She was forgetful.
Disorganized.
Chronically incapable of arriving anywhere without carrying twice as many things as necessary.
Her grammar remained questionable.
Her decision-making occasionally concerned me.
But she cared.
Genuinely.
And children always seemed to know the difference.
I glanced toward the kitchen one last time.
The sound of Kira’s laughter echoed through the house.
For the first time in a very long time, home felt less like a place.
And more like a family.
Though I suspected neither of us fully realized that yet.
- Writer
