The Grumpy Doctor’s Nanny

Fired before starting

The bus shuddered along the uneven city streets, each bump echoing through my worn heels and up my spine like a cruel reminder of just how far I’d fallen. I stared out the smudged window, city lights flickering against the gathering dusk. My reflection—tired eyes, windblown hair, and a face painted in a mask of defeat—looked back at me.

God, I’d blown it again.

I exhaled, the kind of sigh that dragged itself out of your chest like a tired apology to the universe. One wrong move, and my best shot at turning my life around had crumbled before I even got to meet the little girl I was meant to care for. Worse still, I’d stood up to her father—Damian Westbrook—who probably thought I was just some mouthy, broke woman from nowhere.

And he wouldn’t be wrong.

When the bus finally hissed to a stop at the corner of 89th and Ridgeway, I stepped off and into the cold bite of evening air. My street was quiet, and rundown, the kind of place where every other porch light had gone out and no one really bothered to fix it. I took the chipped concrete stairs two at a time and reached my floor, where the hallway smelled faintly of stale beer and microwave dinners.

That’s when I saw it.

A neon orange eviction notice taped to my door.

I froze.

Then, like I had done so many times before, I ripped it off quickly and shoved it into my purse. As if hiding it might make it disappear.

The key stuck in the door again. It always did. I jiggled it, muttering under my breath until it finally gave way and I stumbled inside. The studio was dark and small, its only light flickering from the streetlamp outside. I didn’t bother flipping on the switch. I didn’t want to see the emptiness too clearly tonight.

My heels came off first, followed by my blouse and slacks. With each layer, I shed the weight of the day, until I was left in my bra and underwear, goosebumps rising against my skin. I collapsed face-down on my old couch—springs creaking in protest—and let out a muffled groan into the threadbare cushion.

This was it. The glamorous life of Callie Hart.

The place was nearly bare now. I’d sold off everything I didn’t absolutely need. The second-hand TV? Gone. Microwave? Pawned last week. All that remained was my lumpy couch, my bed, and a few mismatched dishes in the cupboard. My closet held two pairs of shoes, a handful of professional outfits, and a single winter coat that barely kept the wind out anymore.

I had nothing left.

And worst of all—I had no one left to turn to.

I’d borrowed from Sally last month. Sweet, always-there-for-you Sally. But she had a toddler to feed and bills of her own. I couldn’t ask her again. It wouldn’t be right. The shame of that thought settled in my gut like a stone.

I was at the end of my rope. No rent. No job. No plan.

Just then, the loud, crackling ring of my phone broke the silence. I reached for it, squinting at the screen.

Sally.

Of course.

I wiped my eyes before answering, forcing a fake smile into my voice. “Hey, Sal.”

“Well?” Her voice was bubbling with hope. “Did you get it? Tell me you nailed it!”

“I did…” I hesitated, curling up on the couch. “But…”

“But what? Callie—”

“I think I might’ve already gotten fired.”

There was a beat of stunned silence on the other end.

“What happened?” she asked carefully.

So I told her. I told her about the little girl going missing, about the frantic search, about the icy disapproval of Damian Westbrook, and how I’d dared to speak up when he yelled at his daughter. I could practically hear Sally pacing on the other end.

“He sounds like a total jerk.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled. “A rich, cold, control freak of a jerk.”

“But is he as hot as the photos?”

I groaned, burying my face in the couch. “Unfortunately… yes.”

Sally laughed. “Figures. All the broody ones are always hot. It’s like a universal law.”

“Great. The universe hates me.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she said firmly. “You stood up for a little girl. You did the right thing. Maybe… maybe that’s not the end of it.”

I shrugged, even though she couldn’t see it. “It felt pretty final.”

“Well,” she said gently, “just in case, there’s an opening at the bar. It’s not glamorous—it’s a janitor position. Night shifts, mostly cleaning bathrooms and mopping floors. But it pays enough for rent. Barely.”

I closed my eyes. “Scrubbing toilets. My dream job.”

“Callie—”

“No, no. I’m grateful,” I said quickly. “Honestly. I’ll come by tomorrow and fill out an application. Thanks, Sally.”

“Of course.”

After we hung up, I stared at the ceiling, the soft buzz of city noise drifting through the cracked window. I felt like crying—but I was too tired to do even that.

There was something soul-shattering about knowing you had tried your best and still failed. I had walked into the Westbrook estate with hope in my chest, my shoulders straight, and my resume clutched in a folder I bought with my last three dollars. I had told myself this was it—this was where it would turn around.

But maybe I didn’t belong in a place like that.

Maybe someone like me—a broke, scared, former surrogate still healing from choices no one else knew about—wasn’t meant to work in gilded homes with priceless chandeliers and designer furniture.

Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about the little girl.

Lila.

Even in the chaos, even with the yelling, I’d seen the flicker of fear in her eyes. The same fear I’d seen in dozens of kids before—kids without comfort, without safety, without warmth. It was the same fear I used to see in the mirror as a child.

And Damian…

God, he was gorgeous. But the kind of gorgeous that could cut glass. He was like a statue carved from stone—perfect, untouchable, cold. The way he spoke to his daughter… the way he snapped at me…

But there had been something else, too. A flicker of helplessness. Like he was trying to control something he didn’t understand.

I didn’t know what his story was, and I didn’t care to find out. It wasn’t my place anymore.

But still…

I rolled onto my side, pulling a thin blanket off the back of the couch. Tomorrow, I’d wake up and put on a smile, and apply to scrub bathrooms.

Because that’s what survivors did.

We cleaned toilets with our heads held high.