Page 13 of Protecting My Nanny

I make my way upstairs. What was once Claire's room is now Jaime's. The boyband and popstar posters have been replaced with superheroes and anime characters. My room is now a guestroom. However, I find several boxes in the walk-in closet marked with my name. She could've thrown them all away, but she didn't. I think to myself that she knew I'd come back someday.

One of the boxes is marked "Shane/Claire/Family," and it seems to call to me. Within are family albums of us, our parents, Jaime,and his father, Mark. But it's the digital camera among it all that is the true treasure. I power it on and immediately go to the file marked "Jaime Memories." I watch for about an hour videos of varying lengths of Claire, Mark, and Jaime. Claire teaches him to tie his shoes, takes him to school on the first day, and teaches him to ride a bike. I see what Jaime is missing—it's the same thing I was missing for a long time. I realize for the first time that Claire was much more than a sister to me; she was what I needed, and what Jaime has lost: a loving parent.

I sit on the floor, surrounded by memories, letting the emotions wash over me. The pain of losing Claire feels fresh, like a wound that never quite healed. I feel the weight of my responsibilities as Jaime's guardian more than ever. I have to be more than just an uncle to him, more than just someone who hands out money or ensures his nanny is doing her job. I have to be there for him in the way Claire was for me.

I stand up and carefully repack the box, taking the camera with me. I walk through the house one last time, feeling closer to Claire than I have in years. I make a silent promise to her: I will do better. I will be there for Jaime, just as she was there for me.

Back in my car, I take a deep breath and head home, determined to start being the guardian Jaime deserves. I can't change the past, but I can honor Claire's memory by being the best parent I can be for Jaime.

Chapter 6

Nicole

By the time I give Jaime dinner, I've read the message at least a hundred times, pacing back and forth across the soft Persian carpet of Shane's living room. My eyes are glued to my phone screen, my thoughts racing. Jaime looks up from his plate, sensing my unease.

"Are you okay, Ms. Nicole?" he asks, his big round eyes full of concern.

I force a smile. "I'm fine, Jaime. Just a bit tired."

But I'm far from fine. The message gnaws at me, each word a tiny, insistent whisper in my mind.Why now? Why this message? What are they hiding?

"Are you sure?" Jaime asks again. "Is something wrong? Where's Uncle Shane?"

Come on, Nicole. You've got a traumatized kid you're working up.I stop pacing and calm myself, giving Jaime my full attention.

"Your Uncle Shane is fine, bud," I reassure him. "He's probably on his way home now, and if he doesn't arrive by the time you sleep, I'll send him in to check on you. Okay?"

"Okay," Jaime says, going back to his dinner. I have a bone to pick with the absent-minded uncle, but the biggest thing on my mind now is this text I've received from Gio.

The message is simple:

Hi Nicola, I've missed you dearly. All is well back home. I've finally gotten a job and met a girl who adores me. I think it will be some time before I'm ready to come to America, but don't worry. Things couldn't be better for me here.

I analyze every word and phrase of the text for a sign, symbol, or signal. The only revelation I've come to is both the most important detail and the most frustrating: There is no way that Gio sent me this text.

There are several issues with it, the first being that it doesn't resemble my brother at all. The tone is dismissive, and the wording is off. It's too casual and vague, which is entirely unlike Gio. The author—who I suspect is Raffaele—writes as if Gio and I frequently communicate when, in reality, we haven't spoken in almost a year. The phrases and wording used would deceive no one who truly knows him. Gio is straightforward, reserved, and concise. He would have, at the very least, asked how I was doing or requested that I call him back.

Fake texts are not uncommon for me. I've asked Raffaele to speak with Gio a few times before. Sometimes, he's complied, finding a way to connect me with Gio, even if it was just for a few moments. Those conversations kept me content, knowing he was alive and able to speak. This is sometimes the best I can hope for, given our situation. Other times, I've received what I thought was a fake text, but even those messages usually came with a picture to reassure me. This time, it's different. It feels like an attempt to deceive me more than a white lie meant for comfort—it feels like something is being covered up, and that scares me.

I have an urge to uncover the truth, but I can't show my fear to Jaime. Frantically making phone calls in Italian won't help either of us. My priority is to protect him and maintain normalcy. I need to calm down and accept that calling now might not be beneficial. I take a deep breath and try to focus on the present. We'll sort this out when the time is right. For now, the grieving child and absent uncle need to take priority.

"How about we play a game after dinner?" I suggest, hoping to distract both of us.

Jaime's face lights up. "Can we play hippos?"

"Sure," I say, relieved to see him smile.

As we play, his laughter fills the room, momentarily easing the weight on my shoulders. But deep down, I know this is only a temporary reprieve. The truth about Gio still looms.

Just after 8 p.m., I hear the door open and the security box beep. Shane rushes in and finds me on the couch, sipping coffee. The blend is bitter and distinct, much better than the store-bought stuff I'm used to, but to me it still doesn't compare to the beans we get in Italy. Still, I've had about four cups this evening.

He stops in his tracks when he sees me, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. I can see he wants to say something, but there's an apprehension in his eyes. I'm ready to let loose on him. This is only the latest in a long line of missed events important to Jaime, and he's given the same excuse each time. But there's something in his expression—a genuine concern—that makes me pause. It softens my resolve just slightly, even makes me a bit sympathetic to him and, I hate to admit, a bit attracted.

"I'm not going to give you any excuses," he starts, his voice steady but laced with regret. "I've missed another important moment in Jaime's life and selfishly taken away your time; there's no excuse. I'm sorrier now than I've ever been; I can't take it back, but listen, I—"

I raise my cup to my face and take a sip of coffee, and he stops mid-sentence.

I set my empty mug on the coffee table and dive right into my rant.

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