For years I believed the nanny had walked out of my life

for me.

She knew I hated crusts on sandwiches.

She sat beside me through fevers.

She checked under my bed when I was six because I’d convinced myself a raccoon lived there.

She never missed a school play, even the awful one where I played “Tree Number Three.”

Anna cared for me.

Anna never missed my birthday either.

Until the year I turned 13.

That year, Anna promised she’d bring my favorite chocolate cake and “a surprise you’ll understand when you’re older.”

At 13, my mind raced with different possibilities, but I assumed it would be something exciting.

Like a puppy or a trip.

Maybe even a car, despite having no license and no realistic reason to expect one.

I waited beside the window until the candles I’d lit as decoration melted crooked.

Anna never came.

The following morning, I begged Dad to call her.

“Don’t,” he snapped.

I’d never