Page 83 of Only Mine
“Of course! Transitions can be challenging for little ones. I have several techniques for managing attachment disruption.”
Attachment disruption.
Is that what we’re calling it when I ripped away the one person who made my daughter laugh?
“She likes her eggs scrambled, not too dry,” I say instead of what I’m thinking. “No foods touching on the plate. She’s particular about how her entrée is organized.”
“I’ve reviewed all the notes you sent.” Erin pulls out a fucking tablet. “I’ve actually created a structured routine that should optimize her development while maintaining consistency.”
Optimize.
“My five-year-old isn’t a restaurant operation.”
“Oh—not at all! I just meant that children form attachmentsfast, especially motherless ones who’ve had rotating caretakers, and I’m taking all of that into account to make sure she’s all right after … what was her name? Some kind of bird, right? I’m sure she might’ve given Ivy some bad habits.”
“Wrenley.” My voice drops to a temperature that usually sends line cooks scrambling. “Her name is Wrenley.”
Erin’s smile falters. “Right. Well, I’m sure she did her best, but it’s difficult to manage an exuberant child like Ivy without proper training.”
“She made my daughter happy.”
I let that hang in the air, simple, damning, and expectant.
“Papa?” Ivy appears on the stairs in her pajamas, clutching her favorite plushy unicorn, Mr. Pawesome. “Is Miss Wrenley coming back today?”
The hope in her voice guts me.
“Miss Erin’s here to help with mornings now, remember? Then she’ll take you to school.”
“I don’t want her.” Ivy wrinkles her nose. “She smells weird.”
“It’s not nice to say those things out loud, Ivy,” Erin scolds.
“Like the candle store that makes you sneeze,” Ivy continues unabashed. She backs up a step, then repeats, “I want Miss Wrenley.”
“Wrenley was never meant to be your nanny,mon trésor. We’ve talked about this.”
At length. For hours last night.
Erin’s smile stays in place. “Are you ready to pick out clothes for school? We could wear your butterfly shirt!”
Ivy looks at her like she’s violated something sacred. “Ihatebutterflies.”
“No, you do not.” I fold my arms, losing patience. “Apologize to Miss Erin right now.”
Ivy turns and runs back upstairs.
“That’s perfectly normal,” Erin assures me, though I didn’t ask. “She’s just testing boundaries.”
“Right.” I grab my keys, already late for prep. “I need to get to the restaurant.”
“Don’t worry about a thing! We’ll have a wonderful morning and be at school right on time!”
I leave before I say something I’ll regret, Ivy’s muffled crying following me out the door.
C’est Trois’s kitchen is already humming when I arrive. Eddie, my new sous chef, has the prep cooks started on basics, but he takes one look at my face and wisely doesn’t comment on my mood.
“Special’s already on the board,” he says. “Duck confit with cherry reduction.”
