Anna's first week at the Andrews' residence passed swiftly. The days flowed together, not through moments of connection, but through carefully and tranquilly maintained routines.
She learned the routine of the place: where the keys were kept, how much detergent to use for a full load, which burner ran too hot on the stovetop. It wasn't just about her job. No one had said it aloud, but Anna understood—her career wasn't to clean the house. It was to fill in the gaps the family had left behind.
Jill's mother, Sharon Andrew, was a presence that breezed in and out like a sudden gust of wind—graceful, calm, and impenetrable. She carried herself with the elegance of someone who belonged more to art galleries and polished cityscapes than kitchen counters. She was tall and fair; her skin held the softness of porcelain kissed by morning light. Her beauty was the kind that turned heads without a word.
She moved with the serene confidence of a lady who didn't need anything, her heels clicking like punctuation in an otherwise silent sentence. Her tailored clothes clung to her like a second skin, always clean and purposeful. Sharon never lingered—she moved through rooms with the grace of smoke, never settling, always just out of reach.
Her eyes were calm and distant, bearing the weight of whispered stories and shining with intelligence that was sometimes misinterpreted as coldness. Her love came infrequently, like perfume—traced in the air after she'd left, subtle and difficult to understand. She was a woman of few words, but each gaze and perfectly timed pause seemed to convey a great deal. To Jill, she was both a mirror and a mystery—an ever-changing image framed in peaceful beauty and unwavering grace.
Jill's father, Will Andrew, was a high-ranking international business strategist who travelled frequently across countries for conferences, contract negotiations, and high-stakes meetings. His responsibilities were as broad as the maps he often analysed in his office—one for each contract signed or meeting scheduled. When he got home, it turned out to be just a layover. He spent the little time under his roof, imprisoned himself in his private office—door closed, shades drawn—doing virtual meetings or mentally preparing for his next trip abroad. His presence was fleeting, and his attention even more so.
At first, there was no connection with Sharon; Anna struggled to understand the kind of woman she was. She was initially harsh, difficult to satisfy, and never easily pleased.
Sharon's voice could strike without warning. She never hesitated to raise it with Anna whenever she slipped up. Her words were sharp and sudden, slicing through the air with a precision that left Anna feeling diminished, crumpling inward like paper under flame.
Jill had always maintained a quiet distance. Something heavy and unspoken triggered her anxiety. She frequently found excuses to avoid Anna whenever she attempted to play with her.
Anna and Jill rarely communicated regarding Anna's responsibilities, such as bathing, feeding, or changing her. It often felt like a tug of war, with Jill constantly avoiding Anna's touch as she ran around the house. They never had much time to bond or play together; Anna would always be alone in her room, playing with her toys.
Jill had never considered Anna a family member. She never got used to Anna's weird silences or how she would retreat into the corners of the house like a shadow that refused to blend in. Anna's arrival seemed like an interruption, a silent storm that Jill couldn't anticipate or control. Every attempt to incorporate her seemed forced, like threading a needle with shaking hands.
Despite everything, Anna remained loyal and committed to the family, offering to stay.
One quiet evening, a month into her new role, Anna was in the kitchen, scraping plates and rinsing dishes, when a soft knock broke the stillness.
She turned to see Jill standing in the doorway, barefoot and small, her oversized pyjama sleeves bunched around her wrists.
"Can I sit with you?" the little girl asked, her voice barely more than a breath.
Anna dried her hands on a dish towel, shocked. Jill had never requested to sit with her. She was constantly full of questions and complaints, bouncing from one curiosity to another. She was still withdrawing when Anna drew closer, but she stared directly into Anna's eyes with a frightened expression, as if Anna might spank her for coming close to her.
"Of course," Anna said, pulling the chair beside her.
Jill climbed carefully, expecting someone to tell her she didn't belong there. She folded her hands in her lap and scanned the room, never settling.
They sat in silence for a few moments. The kind of silence that spoke more than words could.
Jill murmured, "Do you think they'll come home soon?"
The question hit harder than Anna expected. She felt the familiar lump rise in her throat, the one she always got when a child asked for something they knew wouldn't come.
"I don't know," Anna answered gently. "But I'll be here. I promise."
Jill looked up, searching Anna's face for something solid she could hold onto. Then came a small, tired smile—the kind of smile that didn't belong on a child so young. The kind that knew better than to hope too much.
"Why do you stay?" Jill asked. Her voice was soft, unsure. "You could go home. You don't have to stay here with me."
Anna took a deep breath, contemplating her answer.
"I decide to stay," she said firmly, "because sometimes people need someone to stay when everything else is missing. And right now… that someone is me."
Jill didn't say anything right away. But she reached out, just slightly, until her fingers brushed the hem of Anna's sleeve. And from that night on, she never avoided Anna again, and soon, she came to accept her as part of the family.
Anna grew more comfortable in her new surroundings over time. She became a constant—the calm presence at breakfast, the storyteller at bedtime, the one who remembered Jill's favourite cup and how to braid her hair the way she preferred.
Anna would snuggle Jill into bed and read her the same stories every night. After finishing the last page, she would sit next to her in silence, turn off the light, and kiss her goodnight. However, the rooms down the hall remained silent. Her parents were present at times, but not consistently.
Anna stopped trying to break the silence. Instead, she reconciled with it, discovering a pattern in it. She existed in the gap between what was and what should have been.
Years later, she sat alone in the living room, gazing at Jill's photograph on the wall. Anna could still feel the memory of that first night, the quiet, the questions, and the way Jill had looked at her with eyes that held far too much for her age.
Her fingers brushed against the worn quilt in her lap, grounding her to the present. But her heart still drifted back to that little girl at the top of the stairs. Then, Anna realised, she wasn't just passing through someone else's story.
She was part of it.
And in that house full of silence and absence, she had chosen to stay.