Today, as I watched through the window as the last nanny ran out, her uniform torn and her hair dyed green—the result of some cruel prank by the twins—I felt a mixture of shame and despair. 37 in two weeks. 37 women who said the same thing before leaving. These girls don’t need discipline; they need a mother, and I don’t have one to give them.
My personal assistant, Augusto, called while I was still watching the taxi drive away. “Mr. Mendoza, there are no more agencies on the list. The last ones have categorized us as a hopeless case.” “Then we’ve exhausted all professional options,” I replied listlessly. “There is an alternative, sir.”
We can hire a housekeeper at least to keep the house running while we find another solution. I sighed. At that moment, anything that restored even a modicum of order seemed like a miracle. Do it. Anyone who agrees to come in. A few kilometers away, in the round cape, a young woman named Luía Oliveira woke up at 5:30 in the morning. She was 25 years old and had the permanent exhaustion of someone who works for two and dreams for ten. Her father was a retired bricklayer.
Her mother was a candy vendor. Since she was 18, she had been cleaning houses to pay for her night classes in child psychology. That morning, as she was getting ready to take three buses to her regular job, she received a call from the agency she occasionally worked for. “Luía, we have an emergency.”
Mansion in Morumbi. Double fare. The client needs someone today. Double, he asked, looking at the bills on the table. Send me the address. I’ll be there in two hours. He didn’t know, of course, that he was heading to a house of mourning and the rage of six girls who had declared war on the world. Two hours later, the taxi stopped in front of the tall wrought-iron gates of the Mendonza Albuquerque mansion.
