The Grumpy Doctor’s Nanny

Grilled Cheese and Grit

The sun had barely crested the horizon when I slipped out of bed, wrapped myself in a robe, and tiptoed through the hushed corridors of the mansion. It was still early—maybe six at most— I was used to getting up early because I usuallywent for a morning run.

As part of my approach I wanted her to start the day with something different.

I moved quietly toward the wing of the house where Lila’s room was, pausing outside her door. I knocked gently, and after a moment, her sleepy little voice called, “Come in.”

I pushed the door open and peeked inside. She was already sitting up, blinking groggily, still clutching her bunny. Her hair was a mess of tangled curls, and her pajama sleeves were rumpled around her wrists.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” I said softly. “Can I help you get ready today?”

She looked surprised for a moment, then gave the smallest nod. I smiled and walked in, sitting on the edge of her bed.

Together, we picked out her clothes—a light pink sweater dress with a bow on the waist and white tights. I helped her wash her face and brush her teeth, then sat her on a little stool in front of the vanity and began gently working through the tangles in her hair.

“You have such pretty curls,” I murmured as I braided her hair into two neat plaits, tying the ends with little pink ribbons.

Lila didn’t say much, but she didn’t pull away either. Her eyes followed my movements in the mirror, and I caught the smallest hint of contentment flickering there.

When we were done, I helped her into her shoes and walked her to the breakfast room, where Mrs. Westbrook and Damian were already seated, sipping coffee and reading the morning paper. I greeted them as cheerfully as I could and I only got a response from Mrs Westbrook and not Damian.

“Eat up, darling,” Mrs. Westbrook said, smiling warmly as Lila climbed into her seat.

I excused myself quickly and made my way to the kitchen.

The staff had already prepared the usual elaborate breakfast spread—croissants, crepes, eggs benedict, fresh fruit, imported cheese. But I wasn’t here for that.

I opened the massive industrial fridge and pulled out a few things I’d tucked away: fresh strawberries, sliced kiwi, a little bag of blueberries. I found some crackers, a mini container of almond butter, and a grilled cheese sandwich I’d made earlier, still warm from the press.

It wasn’t gourmet. It wasn’t fancy. But it was made with love. And I wanted Lila to know someone thought about her even when she wasn’t in the room.

I packed it neatly into a pink lunch box I’d found in one of the drawers and added a little folded napkin with a smiley face drawn on it in pen.

When I finished, I walked quickly through the hall toward the front entrance. The chauffeur had pulled up, and I saw Lila and Damian stepping out of the house. She wore a small backpack, her shoulders already looking weighed down by something invisible.

I hurried toward them, clutching the lunchbox in my hands.

“Lila!” I called softly, waving.

She turned, her face lighting up in recognition. I smiled and bent slightly to hand her the box.

But before her tiny hands could reach it, a large hand shot out between us and grabbed it instead.

Damian.

He looked down at the lunchbox, then at me, his mouth twisting into something sharp and disdainful.

“What is this?” he asked coldly.

“I—I made her lunch,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Just something small—fruit, a grilled cheese sandwich. I thought—”

“You thought wrong,” he cut in, his tone laced with contempt. “The school she attends provides lunch. Carefully balanced meals, prepared by nutritionists. She doesn’t need your poor choice of food poisoning her with salt and sugar.”

My cheeks flushed. “It’s just fruit and—”

“I don’t want her eating from unqualified hands,” he snapped, louder now. “You were hired to look after her, not to stuff her with processed carbohydrates and empty calories.”

I felt like I’d been slapped. The lunchbox, now dangling from his hand like it was contaminated, burned my eyes.

Lila looked between us, wide-eyed and silent, and my heart broke. I clenched my fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms, but I said nothing.

Not because I had nothing to say.

But because the last time I spoke up, he fired me before I even started.

So I bit my tongue.

Damian handed the lunchbox to a nearby butler, muttering something about “dispose of it,” before turning back to Lila.

“Let’s go,” he said curtly.

She followed him without a word, but before she got into the car, she glanced back at me.

Her eyes met mine.

I stood there long after the car had driven off, the morning sun warming my skin, my hands shaking.

Anger bubbled inside me—not just at the humiliation, but at the sheer injustice of it.

It wasn’t about the sandwich.

It was about control. About a man so emotionally cut off from his own child that even a small gesture of kindness was seen as a threat.

He didn’t want to connect. He wanted to control.

And I was walking a fine line.

I returned to the kitchen, silent, barely noticing the staff’s cautious glances. They’d seen what happened. But no one dared say a word.

I cleaned up the counter where I’d made the sandwich. Washed the fruit bowl. Wiped every surface to vent my frustration.

But inside, I was boiling.