Julian told her what would happen.
“Her room won’t be her room anymore?”
“She isn’t living here.”
Maisie looked down.
“Can I see her again?”
“We’re discussing that with Anna. I won’t promise something she hasn’t agreed to.”
The little girl nodded reluctantly.
Anna collected books, clothes, framed photographs, and a mug Maisie painted.
She left a list of practical childcare information.
Not because she owed the house one final act of service.
Because she wanted the child to have continuity.
Julian thanked her.
Then she gave him a separate envelope.
Her proposal.
Limited daytime hours for a short transition, if they could agree on safe working conditions.
After that, she intended to move to a different role.
She had qualifications in early childhood education and had begun discussing work at a small nursery.
The idea existed before Estelle.
She had postponed exploring it because the household always needed another week.
Now she wanted to decide on her own future.
Julian read the proposal.
He did not ask Maisie to persuade her to stay longer.
Their agreement was written.
Defined hours.
Independent advice.
A clear route for concerns.
No authority for a future partner or guest to change Anna’s role.
No expectation that she would remain overnight because Maisie became upset.
The transition would last six weeks.
Then her employment would end on the terms they agreed.
Personal contact afterward would be discussed separately.
No promise of unlimited availability.
No assumption that affection meant permanent unpaid care.
Anna’s new work would have its own hours.
Her life would have its own shape.
Maisie heard a child-sized version.
Anna would help on certain afternoons for a while.
Then she would work at the nursery.
They could still arrange visits when everyone wanted and could manage them.
The girl asked:
“Can I be sad?”
“Yes,” Anna said.
“Can you still go?”
“Yes.”
Maisie thought about that.
Then leaned against her.
They spent the afternoon making a paper town.
No locked rooms.
No moral lesson hidden in the design.
