I don’t remember the last time my parents tucked me into bed. Maybe when I was three or four. But even then, I think it was Alina, my nanny, who held my hand as I drifted off to sleep. My parents are always busy—meetings, flights, late-night calls. They live in the same house as me, but I hardly see them.
Mornings are the same. I wake up to the sound of Alina moving around the kitchen, making my breakfast. She braids my hair, helps me with my uniform, and reminds me to wear my socks properly. When I leave for school, she is the last person I see, standing at the door, waving. My parents? They’re either still asleep or already gone.
After school, I come home to an empty house. Alina is there, of course, with a snack ready, asking about my day. I tell her about the girl who wouldn’t share her paints, the boy who got in trouble for talking back, and the teacher who gave me an extra makeup assignment for my spelling test. She listens, nodding, smiling in all the right places. Sometimes, I wonder if she even likes hearing all this, or if she’s just pretending. But at least she listens.
I do my homework at the big dining table where my parents never eat. I have dinner with Alina at eight because my parents won’t be home until late. I eat my vegetables because she says I should. I put my plate in the sink because she asks me to. Afterward, we sat on the couch, watching TV together. Sometimes, she lets me rest my head on her lap, stroking my hair the way I imagine my mother would if she were here.
When my parents do come home, it’s usually past my bedtime. I hear the front door open, the sound of heels clicking on the marble floor, the rustling of coats being taken off. Sometimes, they peek into my room, thinking I’m asleep. I keep my eyes closed, but I can smell my mother’s perfume lingering in the air. I wonder if she ever wants to wake me up, just to talk.
On weekends, they say we’ll spend time together. But something always comes up—an urgent email, a last-minute trip, a phone call that just can’t wait. So I go to the park with Alina instead. She pushes me on the swings, watches me climb the monkey bars, and claps when I slide down the tallest one without hesitation. “Brave girl,” she calls me. I wish my parents would see it too.
Birthdays and holidays feel the same. They buy me expensive gifts, things my classmates envy—shiny new gadgets, designer clothes, things I don’t really need. But what I really want is their time. I want to sit between them on the couch, tell them about the books I’m reading, and show them my paintings . I want them to ask about my day, not just in passing, but because they truly care.
Sometimes, I wonder if they even realize how much of my childhood they’re missing. One day, I’ll grow up. I won’t need Alina to braid my hair or remind me to eat my vegetables. I won’t be waiting by the door for my parents to come home. Maybe by then, they’ll look at me and wonder when I stopped being their little girl. But by then, it will be too late.