As I climbed the stairs, I was reminded of what a seasoned nanny told me decades ago in London’s Hyde Park as we both pushed prams with babies tucked inside them. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking the children you nanny—or their parents—are your family. They’re not. And you’re not theirs.” I had forgotten, grown careless, when it came to Brigitta. I’d given in fully to love. If I could see that other nanny now, I’d tell her that though my soul felt fractured in this moment, I had no regrets over having loved her. None.
