It had been three months since Clara’s arrival, and the pristine, intimidating silence of Conti Manor was officially dead. The house no longer smelled of expensive cleaning agents; it smelled of spilled milk, warm laundry, and the faintly sweet, powdery scent of a newborn. My life, once defined by the meticulous, sterile rules of a contract, was now defined by the utter, beautiful, exhausting chaos of two small girls.It was 6:15 a.m., and the house was running on fumes and panic.I was hunched over the kitchen island, trying to assemble Amelia’s breakfast—four years old, highly opinionated, and currently demanding his toast be cut into the shape of a giraffe. Meanwhile, Clara, who believed that the hours between five and seven in the morning were reserved for existential lamentations, was screaming bloody murder from her bouncer near the doorway.“A giraffe, sweetheart, is very complicated,” I pleaded, hacking a piece of toast vaguely into the shape of a rhombus. “How about a very en
Última actualización : 2025-12-13 Leer más