I pretended not to hear. I cut my chicken into tiny pieces I had no intention of eating. I smiled at appropriate moments. I played my part perfectly.

And then Rosie—blessed, wonderful Rosie—chose that exact moment to have a diaper situation.

I won’t go into details, but let’s just say it was loud. It was sudden, and it was immediately apparent to everyone at the table.

Rosie also managed to spit up on what I would later learn was a $15,000 antique Persian rug.

Patricia’s left eye twitched in a way I didn’t know eyes could twitch. That rug aged ten years in two seconds. So did Patricia.

“Perhaps,” Patricia said, her voice tight as a wire, “you should handle that elsewhere, away from the dining room and the antiques and the general vicinity.”

I excused myself and took Rosie to find a bathroom. The mansion had approximately 7,000 bathrooms, but of course, I chose the one that Patricia had apparently claimed as her personal territory.

I didn’t know this until she followed me in.

She waited until I was mid-diaper change, completely vulnerable—my hands full of baby and wipes.

“I know exactly what you’re doing,” Patricia said, closing the door behind her.

I kept my voice calm. “I’m changing a diaper.”

Continued on the next page