Chapter Thirty: WATCHING
1300 Words
Eli
I should have seen it coming.
Honestly.
I really should have.
Yet somehow I still found myself standing in the doorway of the sitting room wondering when exactly my parents had decided Miss Kingsley belonged to them.
Because clearly they had.
The evidence was overwhelming.
My mother was teaching her an old family recipe.
My father was explaining the history of a painting nobody had ever asked about before.
And Miss Kingsley was listening to both of them with complete attention.
As though the information was important.
As though my father wasn’t currently giving a forty-minute lecture about a painting.
A painting.
I leaned against the doorframe.
Coffee in hand.
Observing.
The safest position.
From a distance.
My mother noticed me first.
Unfortunately.
“Eli.”
I immediately regretted entering the room.
“What?”
“Come here.”
“No.”
My mother smiled.
The smile mothers used when they had already decided the outcome of a conversation.
Wonderful.
Absolutely wonderful.
“Come here.”
I sighed.
Then complied.
Because resistance was ultimately pointless.
Always had been.
Always would be.
Kira sat on the carpet nearby building something that vaguely resembled a castle.
Or a spaceship.
Or possibly both.
Children’s engineering remained difficult to interpret.
The moment she saw me, she brightened.
“Daddy.”
“Yes?”
“Nanny is learning Grandma’s cookies.”
I glanced toward the kitchen table.
Miss Kingsley looked alarmed.
An understandable reaction.
My mother’s recipes were complicated.
Unnecessarily complicated.
“Good luck.”
Miss Kingsley narrowed her eyes.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
She was becoming bolder.
Slowly.
“But your mama keep changing instruction.”
My mother gasped dramatically.
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
“You said one spoon.”
“Yes.”
“Then two spoon.”
“Correct.”
“Then maybe three spoon.”
My father laughed.
Kira laughed.
Even I nearly smiled.
Nearly.
My mother pointed at Miss Kingsley.
“That’s because cooking requires feeling.”
Miss Kingsley looked horrified.
“Feeling?”
“Yes.”
“How much feeling?”
My father immediately lowered his newspaper.
A mistake.
The man loved chaos.
“An excellent question.”
“It is not.”
“It is.”
I rubbed my temple.
The conversation was somehow becoming worse.
My mother remained completely serious.
“Enough feeling.”
Miss Kingsley stared.
“That answer explain nothing.”
For a moment the room fell silent.
Then everyone laughed.
Everyone except Miss Kingsley.
Who looked genuinely confused.
The realization only made the others laugh harder.
I took a sip of coffee.
The woman had no idea how entertaining she could be.
Not intentionally.
That was the problem.
Or perhaps the appeal.
The thought appeared unexpectedly.
I immediately dismissed it.
My attention shifted toward Kira.
She was happy.
Ridiculously happy.
The happiest I’d seen her in months.
Part of it was Christmas.
Part of it was being with her grandparents.
And part of it…
My gaze drifted toward Miss Kingsley.
Part of it was her.
That realization wasn’t new.
I’d noticed it long ago.
Kira loved Miss Kingsley.
Trusted her.
Relied on her.
The bond between them was impossible to miss.
Sometimes it was so natural I forgot they weren’t actually family.
The thought settled uncomfortably.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it was dangerous.
Family implied permanence.
People stayed.
People mattered.
People became important.
And important people had a habit of leaving.
I knew that better than most.
My mother’s voice interrupted my thoughts.
“Xenia.”
Miss Kingsley looked up.
“Yes?”
“You know you’re staying with us next Christmas too.”
I nearly choked on my coffee.
“What?”
Three heads turned toward me.
My mother looked offended.
“What?”
“You’ve planned next Christmas already?”
“Of course.”
“It is December.”
“Exactly.”
I stared at her.
My mother stared back.
The woman was impossible.
Completely impossible.
Beside her, Miss Kingsley looked overwhelmed.
“I don’t know where I will be next year.”
“You’ll be here.”
My mother’s certainty was alarming.
Very alarming.
I noticed Miss Kingsley glance down.
Almost shyly.
Almost touched.
And for some reason that expression bothered me.
Not in a bad way.
In a complicated way.
A way I didn’t particularly want to examine.
My father folded his newspaper.
Then spoke.
“You’ve helped Kira.”
The room quieted.
The statement was simple.
Yet something about his tone made everyone listen.
Miss Kingsley blinked.
“I only do my job.”
“No.”
My father shook his head.
“More than that.”
Silence followed.
I watched her closely.
The immediate discomfort.
The way she looked away.
The way she never seemed to know what to do when people praised her.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
“You give yourself very little credit.”
Miss Kingsley smiled awkwardly.
“I make many mistakes.”
My father nodded.
“So do we.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
The stubbornness surprised me.
My father looked amused.
My mother looked amused.
Kira looked amused.
Apparently I wasn’t the only stubborn person in the room anymore.
Miss Kingsley folded her arms.
“My English is bad.”
“It isn’t.”
“I trip over things.”
My mother laughed.
“A lot.”
“A lot.”
“You burn toast.”
“One time.”
“Three.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
Kira immediately raised her hand.
“It was definitely three.”
Traitor.
Miss Kingsley looked betrayed.
The room erupted into laughter.
Again.
The house had been full of laughter since we arrived.
More than usual.
More than it had been in years.
The realization appeared quietly.
Unexpectedly.
I found myself studying Miss Kingsley again.
The way she smiled.
The way she listened.
The way she somehow fit into conversations despite claiming she didn’t.
The way my parents seemed to adore her.
Not tolerate.
Not appreciate.
Adore.
My mother treated her like another daughter.
My father respected her.
Kira worshipped the ground she walked on.
And somehow, despite every reason she should’ve felt out of place…
She looked comfortable.
Like she’d always been here.
The observation unsettled me.
Because it felt familiar.
Dangerously familiar.
The last person I’d seen fit so naturally into this house had been Stephanie.
The thought hit unexpectedly.
Sharp.
Immediate.
Painful.
My chest tightened.
I looked away.
Outside, snow continued falling beyond the windows.
Quiet.
Beautiful.
Cold.
The room behind me remained warm.
Filled with voices.
Filled with life.
Filled with people who cared about one another.
My family.
The word surfaced before I could stop it.
Then another thought followed.
A dangerous one.
One I immediately pushed aside.
Because Miss Kingsley wasn’t family.
She was Kira’s nanny.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
The reminder should have settled something inside me.
Instead it left me strangely dissatisfied.
And that annoyed me more than I cared to admit.
Across the room, Kira suddenly threw her arms around Miss Kingsley.
“Nanny.”
“Yes, baby?”
“I love you.”
The words were spoken casually.
Without hesitation.
Without fear.
The way children spoke when they meant something completely.
Miss Kingsley froze.
Then smiled softly.
The kind of smile that reached her eyes.
“I love you too, baby.”
Then she continued “very much”
Silence settled briefly.
Warm silence.
The kind that only existed around genuine affection.
I looked away first.
Not because the moment was uncomfortable.
Because it wasn’t.
That was the problem.
For the first time in years, watching someone care for Kira didn’t feel like an intrusion.
It felt…
Right.
And right means dangerous.
And I wasn’t ready to decide what that meant.
- Writer
