“Um,” I say again. “Excuse me for one second.”

Enzo has a late start today, so he’s sleeping in this morning. But I sprint up the stairs, and when I see him lying on his side of the bed, I give his shoulder a shake. His eyelashes flutter but he doesn’t open his eyes. I shake him more violently this time, and he finally looks up at me sleepily.

“Millie?” he murmurs.

“Enzo,” I say, “did you call that cleaning woman Suzette recommended?”

He sits up slowly in bed, rubbing his eyes. There have been mornings when I have seen him be instantly alert and leap out of bed, immediately at attention. But I haven’t seen him do that in a long time. Maybe not even since the kids were born. These days, it’s a five-minute process to get him coherent enough for a conversation.

“Yes,” he finally says. “I called her.”

“Why would you do that? We can’t afford a cleaning woman! I can do it myself.”

He yawns. “Is okay. Not that expensive.”

“Enzo…”

He takes another few seconds to wake himself up fully. He swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Millie, you are always cleaning for people. Ever since I know you. So this time, someone cleans for you.”

I wring my hands together. “But⁠—”

“No but,” he says. “She will only come twice a month. Not that much money. Also, Nico is going to empty the trash now, and Ada will do the dishes. I talked to them.”

I start to protest again, but actually, it would be nice not to have to clean for a change. He’s right—it’s something I have always done. I went right from cleaning other people’s houses to cleaning up after my children. Not that Enzo doesn’t ever help, but cleaning a house of four people is a big job.

“Not that much money,” he says again. “You deserve this.”

Maybe I do. Maybe I do deserve it. And anyway, his mind seems made up, so I’m not going to argue.

Except why does it have to be Martha?

I return to the living room, where Martha has efficiently located our cleaning supplies and put herself to work. Okay, she does have a bit of an issue with staring at me, but plenty of people are socially awkward, and she seems to be an incredibly competent cleaning woman. Most families I worked for had endless instructions on how they wanted everything done, but I vowed if I ever could afford that kind of help, I wouldn’t be so obnoxious.

“Enzo says it’s okay,” I report back to her.

She gives me a crisp nod. The woman hardly ever talks. She reminds me a bit of those guards for the royal palace in England who can’t talk or smile.

I attempt to make my egg in the kitchen, but it’s hard to cook with Martha right next to me, efficiently scrubbing our countertop while also glancing up at me every few seconds. Even though our kitchen is much larger than the one we had back in the city, it’s weird to be here while she is cleaning. It feels awkward, like I’m some sort of fancy, rich person who employs servants, which is funny considering… well, we can barely even afford this house, even at ten percent below asking. This house that possibly used to be occupied by barn animals. (Although I don’t actually believe that. I mean, I’m pretty sure.)

I awkwardly step aside so Martha can get her work done. “Excuse me,” I mumble.

Most people I worked for used to leave the house when I was cleaning, and I appreciated that. Even if the employer was not actively telling me how to clean, which some of them did, I always felt like they were silently judging me when they were in the house. Or watching me to make sure I wasn’t stealing anything. And even if they weren’t doing either of those things, they were simply in the way.

Finally, I give up on the egg. I grab a banana instead, because it’s the only breakfast I can think of that doesn’t involve cooking. I carry my slightly brown banana out to the living room and plop down on the sofa with my phone in my other hand.

Maybe I can take Wednesday mornings off instead.

I sort through my emails, dealing with what I can. The kids have been at their new school for less than a week, and already, I’ve got dozens of emails from the school. The principal seems compelled to write to all the parents daily. That is a stark difference between this school and the previous public elementary school in the Bronx. We may not be paying tuition here, but the parents expect a lot. Daily emails, apparently.

I end up deleting almost all the emails from the school. I mean, how many messages can you read about the upcoming book fair or something called Lego Lunch?

The banana isn’t terribly satisfying, but it does the job. I figure I’ll go get some errands done outside the house while Martha is cleaning. Except when I get off the sofa and turn around, I almost jump out of my skin.

Martha is standing rigidly at the entrance to the kitchen.

She is so still. She almost looks like a robot standing there—or is “cyborg” the correct terminology? Either way, it startled me. I thought she was busy cleaning in the kitchen, but apparently she’s been standing there and staring at me for God knows how long. And when I catch her doing it, she doesn’t look away. She is unapologetically staring at me.

“Yes?” I say.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” she says.

“Um, it’s fine. What do you need?”

She hesitates for a few seconds, as if carefully measuring her words. Finally, she blurts out, “Where is your oven cleaner?”

Is that why she was looking at me so intently? She was just confused about the location of the oven cleaner? Is that really all it was?

“It’s in the cabinet right by the stove.” Where else would it be?

Martha nods at my answer and returns to the kitchen. But I still feel a little uneasy. Even if Enzo wants us to have a cleaning woman, that doesn’t mean it has to be Martha. I’d rather not have a cleaner who won’t quit staring at me. But on the other hand, she’s already working here. If we find someone else, I’ll have to fire her. I have never fired anyone in my life, and I’m not looking forward to it.

Maybe this will be fine. After all, she knows where the oven cleaner is now, and according to Enzo, her rates are very reasonable. Suzette’s house is spotless, so she’s obviously good at what she does.

And like Enzo said, I deserve this.

ELEVEN

Nico has a playdate today with Spencer, the boy who lives at 13 Locust.

This playdate was nearly impossible to arrange. We’ve been living here for two weeks, and this was the first opening. I had to provide Janice a copy of Nico’s vaccination record—no joke. I’m surprised she didn’t require blood and urine samples.

But it’s worth it, because Nico is always bouncing off the walls on the weekends, and he doesn’t have a bunch of friends nearby like he did at our old apartment. The playdate is at three o’clock on Sunday afternoon at Spencer’s house, but starting at one, Nico asks me roughly every fifteen minutes if it’s time for the playdate yet. It gets to the point where every time he says the word “Mom,” I want to scream.

“Mom,” he says at a quarter to three. “Can I bring Little Kiwi to Spencer’s house?”

Enzo and Nico decided they didn’t want to wait for a praying mantis egg to hatch and all the mantises to eat each other, so instead they purchased a baby praying mantis that arrived last Monday. Nico named the praying mantis Little Kiwi in a weird homage to one of his favorite fruits.

“Not if you ever want to be invited back,” I reply.

Nico thinks about this. “Can I bring my baseball and bat?”

Tryouts for Little League were a week ago on Friday, and Nico made the team, which is great because it’ll be another way for him to make friends and burn off some of that pent-up energy. But as a result, he’s been even more obsessed with baseball than he was before. Enzo has been tossing the ball around with him every night. It’s very cute to watch, because Enzo narrates every move like an actual baseball game. He comes up to the plate, he swings at the pitch… He gets a hit! He runs to first base, second base…

“Okay,” I agree, although I’m slightly worried that Nico is going to let the ball get out of control and break a window, at which point Janice will have a stroke. He has a good swing, but he is not quite as good at control.

Finally—finally!—it’s three o’clock, so we can head over for the playdate. Ada is sprawled out on the sofa, reading a book, her glossy black hair splayed out behind her. Once again, I am struck by how beautiful my daughter is. I don’t even think she realizes it. God help us all when she does.

“Ada,” I say, “do you want to come with us?”