The Nurseries warm embrace

The sun bled gold through the lace curtains of the houses  nursery, casting delicate shadows over shelves lined with stuffed animals, alphabet blocks, and books. Nanny Rachel adjusted her blouse, her eyes scanning the room with practiced calm. The job listing had been… unusual. “Experienced nanny needed for baby client. Discretion required.” The pay was triple her normal rate. She’d expected a  baby when she got to the house. Not a man, but since it was really good pay she’d still do it. The door creaked open.

He stood there, tall, broad-shouldered, in a tailored navy suit, his tie loosened. His dark hair was tousled, his jaw clenched. But his eyes… wide, hesitant, almost young.”Mr. Whitlock,” Rachel said softly, keeping her tone neutral, warm. “Oliver.” He flinched at his first name, fingers curling into his palms. “I… I don’t know why I’m here.” His voice cracked. “That’s alright,” she replied, stepping closer. The scent of his cologne, sandalwood and bergamot, clashed with the baby powder air. “Let’s take it slow.”

The first week was quiet almost as if at the start of it all, this was embarrassing. He’d arrive after work he’d go to the nursery, shoulders tense, pacing the nursery’s plush rug while Rachel pretended to organize rattles and pacifiers. She’d hum lullabies under her breath, watching his rigid posture soften note by note.

On the eighth day, he sank to the floor, knees drawn to his chest. Rachel didn’t look up from folding a fleece blanket before putting it back onto the shelf. “Would you like a bottle, sweetheart?” A beat. Then, a nod. She warmed the milk in the kitchen, added a drop of honey to the bottle, her own touch, and settled it infront of him. He hesitated, then let her guide the silicone nipple to his lips. His throat bobbed as he drank, eyes shut tight. When he finished, he leaned into her shoulder, his suit jacket wrinkling as a quirk of a smile pressed against his lips.

Months blurred. The passed where suits were replaced with footed colorful pajamas, pacing with clumsy crawls instead of shoes. Rachel bathed him in the tub, scrubbing his back with a loofah while he splashed colorful toys that floated, giggling in a high, breathless way that made her chest ache. She took him back to the nursery after the bath and put him on the changing table, powdering him, fastened tabs to his diaper with clinical tenderness, and let him clutch her skirt when thunderstorms rattled the windows. Some nights, he’d fall asleep during when she’d be reading stories, thumb in mouth, head heavy on her lap. Rachel would card fingers through his hair, wondering when her heartbeat had synced to the rhythm of his breahing.

Winter came. Snow hushed the city and chilled the house but nanny rachel was there to crank up the heat as she waited for him to come home for their usual ‘routine’. Oliver arrived home shivering from the winter chill, cheeks and nose flushed rosy pink, snowflakes melting in his hair. Rachel tutted, stripping off his wet coat. “Let’s get you warm, baby boy.” The pet name slipped out. He froze. Then, with a whimper, he crumpled into her, forehead pressed to her shoulder, hands fisting her blouse. She felt the dampness before hearing the sniffles. “Shh…” She rocked while standing, cheek against his crown. “I’ve got you.”

Later, she found him in the crib, a gift he’d sheepishly asked her to assemble, curled under a nice warm quilt, thumb sucking in earnest. Rachel lingered in the doorway, throat tight towards the sight. Progress, she told herself. His thumb slipped from his mouth as she approached the side of the crib, eyes glassy with sleep-blurred trust. Rachel reached to tuck the quilt tighter, he caught her wrist. Calloused palm, boardroom calluses, yet his grip was a child’s plea. “Stay.” A rasp, scraped raw.

The floorboards bit her knees as she settled beside the crib. He wiggled closer, until his forehead pressed against the bars, her breath fogging the polished wood. She sang “Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly” and traced the shell of his ear with her pinky. His sigh fogged the air, warmer than the steam rising from his forgotten chamomile tea.

By dawn, her blouse was creased where he’d clung through the bars. She found him still asleep, cheek dented from the quilt’s lace trim, one sock half-off. Rachel peeled it gently, revealing a silver scar on his ankle, a bicycle tumble? A childhood she’d never know. She pressed her lips to the mark, fleeting as a dust mote in the nursery’s honeyed light. He stirred, Neither moved. Somewhere, a music box wound down.

His eyelashes fluttered against her knuckles still cupping his bare foot. The nursery clock ticked three times before he released a shaky exhale, lips forming around a word that never surfaced. Rachel’s thumb brushed the arch of his instep, a nanny’s reassurance, nothing more, but his toes curled like fern fronds in morning dew. Downstairs, the grandfather clock chimed seven.  His other hand emerged from the crib bars, clutching a crumpled pacifier with teeth marks scoring the silicone shield. The offering trembled between them.

Rain began pattering against the leaded windows as she fit the nub between his lips. His sigh misted the air, shoulders sinking into the mattress. Rachel’s fingernail caught on the pacifier’s glittering rhinestone heart, real gems, she realized, like the ones in the portrait gallery downstairs where he presided in Armani suits.

The music box stuttered back to life when she rewound it, Brahms’ Lullaby threading through his muffled whimper as she adjusted his sagging diaper. Thermal curtains billowed. Somewhere beyond the estate walls, a sports car backfired. He flinched, plastic clip digging into her palm as she held the pacifier steady. “Ssh now.” Her starch-stiff collar absorbed the first tear. “Rachel’s here.” The lie tasted sweet as gripe water.