Sofía, eight, has started wetting the bed again. Not out of carelessness, but out of fear, emotional regression her mind can’t control.
And finally, Isabela, my little three-year-old, who barely speaks since losing her mother —she whispers one or two words and only eats when she falls asleep.
Today, as I watched through the window while the latest nanny ran out with her uniform torn and her hair dyed green—some cruel prank from the twins—I felt a mixture of shame and despair. Thirty-seven in two weeks. Thirty-seven women who all said the same thing before leaving: These girls don’t need discipline, they need a mother — and you don’t have one to give them.
My personal assistant, Augusto, called while I was still watching the taxi disappear.
“Mr. Mendonza, there are no agencies left on the list. The last ones have labeled us as an impossible case.”
“So we’ve exhausted the professional options,” I answered, drained.
“There is an alternative, sir. We could hire a housemaid, at least to keep the house standing while we search for another solution.”
I sighed. At that moment, anything that could restore a minimum sense of order felt like a miracle.
“Do it. Anyone who agrees to come in.”
A few kilometers away, in Capão Redondo, a young woman named Luía Oliveira was waking up at 5:30 in the morning. She was 25, with the permanent exhaustion of someone who works for two and dreams for ten. Her father, a retired bricklayer. Her mother, a sweets vendor. Since she was 18 she had cleaned houses to pay for her night classes in child psychology.
That morning, as she prepared to take three buses to her usual job, she received a call from the agency she occasionally worked for.
“Luía, we have an emergency. Mansion in Morumbi. Double pay. The client needs someone today.”
“Double?” she asked, staring at the bills on the table.
“Send me the address. I’ll be there in two hours.”
She didn’t know, of course, that she was heading toward a house drowning in grief and rage—six girls who had declared war on the world.
Two hours later, the taxi stopped before the tall wrought-iron gates of the Mendonza Albuquerque mansion.
Luía stepped out, simple in a white blouse and worn jeans. She carried an old backpack, her curly hair tied in a makeshift bun, and dark eyes that seemed to observe everything without fear.
From the window on the upper floor, six pairs of eyes watched her.
“Another victim,” murmured Mariana in a cold tone.
The twins laughed in unison.
“We’ll see how long this one lasts.”
When the maid crossed the threshold, Ricardo received her in the study. He tried to explain, but didn’t know where to begin.
“The house needs a deep cleaning,” he finally said. “And the girls are going through a difficult time.”
“Mr. Augusto told me it would only be for cleaning, not for taking care of the children.”
“Exactly. Nothing more.”
The millionaire fired 37 nannies… until one housemaid did the impossible. – NEXT PART
