Olivia is in her room when it happens. I’ve just looked in on her, in order to remind her for the umpteenth time to clean up the dresses she’s left strewn about the floor. Instead, she taps on her iPad, headphones on, oblivious to me, oblivious to the world. She likes her clothes there, she’s told me before. This way, she knows just where to find them, and how did I ever not for a moment think that our children would have personalities big enough to rival our own? It doesn’t matter that she’s not technically my flesh and blood. There’s that whole nature versus nurture thing, and she’s her father’s daughter through and through. Every once in a while I catch a glimpse of myself in there, but mostly she’s all you. This is what I’m thinking when I see the nanny tumbling down the stairs.
It al
