I was nineteen when I met her for the first time.
She opened the door with one baby on her hip while the other cried somewhere behind her. Her hair was loosely tied back, her eyes tired but kind. The apartment was small, quiet—almost too quiet for a home with twins.
“I’m sorry,” she said, shifting the baby in her arms. “It’s been a long day.”
That was the first thing she ever said to me. Not hello. Not who are you. Just… an apology.
Her name was Elena.
She had no family. No pictures on the walls. No visitors. No phone calls. Just her and the twins—Luca and Mira. They were barely a year old when I began working as their nanny.
