At 6:40 on a Saturday morning, my sister Celeste arrived at my house with five children, seven suitcases, four backpacks, two booster seats, and one enormous stuffed giraffe.
She barely gave me time to understand what was happening before she smiled and said, “You’ll be the nanny while we’re in Europe.”
I stared at her.
“You’ll what?”
“It’s only three weeks,” she said casually. “Twenty-one days. You’ll be fine.”
I looked past her at the children standing quietly on my porch.
Mason, 13. Leah, 11. Twins Jonah and Eli, 8. And little Sophie, only 5, clutching her stuffed giraffe, Mr. Pickles, as if he were the only thing in the world she could trust.
Two weeks earlier, Celeste had asked me if I could watch the children for one weekend.
One weekend.
I had agreed.
Then our mother’s health acted up, Dad complained that his knee was bothering him, and somehow the family’s problems became my responsibility.
