She’s sweet and earnest, and takes excellent care of the kids. She says “yes ma’am” like she’s straight out of a Tennessee Williams play, and not a cute little twenty-something working her way through night school. Abby likes her. She really does.

She also kind of pities her.

Mel lives in a studio with a special needs sister and a broken heater and carries all of her things around in a reusable Trader Joe’s bag. She drinks instant coffee. She always takes her dirty, beat up sneakers off at the door. Abby asked once, teasing, “Are you always this polite?” Mel just looked at her, blinking, like the question didn’t make sense.

Frank had been the one to hire her. He said one of the hospital volunteers needed some paying work. Said he felt bad. Said as the senior attending, he wanted to support his volunteers, said the ER couldn’t function without them. Said Mel was “kind” and “good with kids” and “a little odd, but in a sweet way.” Abby didn’t argue. She could use the help.

It starts small.

Just a hair tie on the bathroom counter, not one of Abby’s. Pale purple and stretched out, not something Abby would ever own. 

Next, lip balm. The little flavorless Chapstick tubes that they keep by the register at the dollar store, nestled into the corner of her nightstand drawer. Abby finds it one morning when she’s digging for charger cords and frowns, but shrugs. Frank’s, maybe. Not worth mentioning.

Then: perfume in her medicine cabinet. Or - not perfume, really. Body spray. Something bright pink that smells sugary and stupid. 

She brings it up over dinner.

Frank doesn’t even look up from his plate. “Oh, that’s Mel’s, probably. The baby threw up on her and she needed to use the shower before she left yesterday.”

Abby nods. It just doesn’t sit right.

She feels, sometimes, that Frank is sleeping with someone. Someone younger. Some shiny little ingénue. 

The babysitter, Abby tells herself, is not shiny. She’s smart and weird and doesn’t wear makeup. She wears threadbare hoodies and doesn’t eat dinner when they offer. She’s not the kind of girl who can threaten a marriage. She’s the kind of girl who gets forgotten.

Abby finds it three months later.

They’ve just flipped the mattress - she’d read something about allergies and dust mites - and she notices a groove in the headboard, right where it meets the frame. You wouldn’t see it unless you were looking, unless the mattress was pulled all the way off.

It says daddy’s girl. 

All lowercase and jagged, like someone carved it with a key.

She runs her finger across the letters.

When she shows Frank, he winces, but he doesn’t look surprised.

“I think it’s from before we bought the bed,” he says too quickly. “Maybe - used furniture, remember?”

“We bought this new.”

He makes a vague sound. Shrugs. “Kids playing, maybe?”

That lands like a slap in the face. The kids don’t know how to spell. 

Abby drops it. The fight they’ll have about it won’t end anything, and she doesn’t have the energy to lose gracefully.

She catches Mel staring once. They’re in the kitchen. Abby’s tying her hair up. And Mel just stares. Not at her face - at her neck, somewhere below her ear.

It only lasts a second, but it’s weird. Something about it feels like a violation.

Abby pretends not to notice. Smiles, asks her how school is going.

Mel says “fine” in that quiet, tight voice of hers. 

It’s late. They’ve been out. A hospital fundraiser thing. Black tie, valet, wine Abby didn’t like.

They walk in together, tired and buzzed, and Frank goes still just inside the bedroom door. Abby nearly bumps into him.

Then she sees it: Mel is curled up asleep in their bed.

Not on it - in it. Curled up under the duvet like it’s hers. One hand curled near her mouth like a child.

Frank mutters, “Jesus.”

Abby is already walking into the room. She doesn’t shout. Doesn’t wake her.

“She must’ve been tired,” Frank says, softly, from behind her. “Long day, I guess.”

“In our bed?”

“I mean, she was watching the kids, Abby. Probably just-”

“Frank.”

He lifts both hands like he’s giving up. “Okay, okay. It’s weird. I’ll drive her home.”

Abby sighs. She looks down at the girl, asleep in the lacy camisole she had been wearing under a modest flannel shirt. There are freckles on her shoulder.

“No,” Abby snaps. “I’m calling someone to come get her.”

“Who would you even call?” Frank whispers, sounding strangely upset. Whatever.

She picks up Mel’s phone from the nightstand. Swipes up. It’s not locked - how stupid of her. 

Abby checks under recent calls. Surely, someone will come get her. Right there, taking up almost the entire list - Daddy.

It’s strange because Mel never talks about her parents. For some reason, Abby had thought they were both dead and gone. 

She calls. 

Behind her, Frank’s phone buzzes in his coat pocket.

Mel stirs in the bed, eyes fluttering open.

“Hey,” she says, her voice hoarse. “You’re home.”

Frank moves first. Says softly, without a care in the world, “Go back to sleep, baby.”