She shakes her head. “He’s being dramatic. He’ll come to us. I have a first aid kit. Finish what you were telling me.” I hear his muffled cries for his mom and I want to plug my ears. But Anneliese is serene, even as I notice other nannies and moms turning to her, recognizing that she’s ignoring her charge’s scream.

I see a couple of short-haired women in yoga pants and slip-on sneakers walking toward us, and I cringe at the verbal assault that’s about to happen, their hands scrunched up in menace, their body language rigid, their gaunt faces ready to put her photo on a nanny-shaming Facebook group. But before the two women can reach us, Jordan is striding over to us, eyes puffy from crying. His hands are tucked into the crooks of his armpits.

“You’re very brave, aren’t you?” Anneliese coos, and takes out a first aid kit. The two women stop in their tracks, confer with one another, before turning back to their bench.

Up close, I can see that it’s only a scratch, a bit bloody, but definitely more painful to a seven-year-old than it would be for anyone else. She patches him up quickly, spreading a Band-Aid neatly on the cut. “You can go back out and play now.”

He shakes his head. “All the other kids just saw me fall. Can we leave?” Anneliese answers by handing him a chapter book and he sighs and takes it, leaving space on the bench as he sits cross-legged and begins to read, muttering the words quietly to himself. Lola gurgles awake and Anneliese lifts her out of the stroller and places her on the blacktop. She goes over to bug her brother, who actually seems happy for the distraction.

Anneliese sits back down and turns to me, expression gentle, placid. “So, go on. I’m sorry that incident interrupted you.” She puts a hand on my arm, soft like feathery wings. I immediately relax again.

“I just have so many questions about that time in my life, when you knew me,” I say carefully. “I barely remember it and I could never ask my dad because it was so shadowed by Mom’s death. That’s why I reached out.” She moves closer to me, her knee touching mine, and I get a whiff of her shampoo. It’s so comforting that I almost prod her neck like an infant.

“And I can answer them all,” she whispers to me. And there’s a catch in her voice that is almost, but not quite, discernable. But her arm, still around me, is so comfortable that I decide not to dwell. I can’t help it. I need this. I need her. “I’m with the kids most days after they get out of school. You could come to Astoria and visit us next week, if you’d like.”