I had always been aware of my deficits and had worked hard to shore them up. To be frank, I resembled the proverbial English butler who learns all the rules, who lives and breathes the rules, without necessarily internalizing what is underneath them. I learned the rules for the sole purpose of serving the ruling class, making them comfortable, and fitting in. (The idea of a “ruling class” had never bothered me. It was only if you acknowledged the existing hierarchy that you could use it to your advantage.) I paid attention to every intonation in people’s sentences. How they tied their shoes or didn’t tie them. I paid attention to the minutiae until it became second nature. I didn’t want to appear to be striving for something that I wasn’t inherently given at birth. Yes, I’d been born into white trash. But I, myself, had a drastically superior mind and sensibilities.

My clients felt relaxed enough to discuss their finances in front of me. They couldn’t talk about money with someone who was poor. They could only talk about money with someone who understood money. I considered that my job—to convey to them that I understood their world. And that I understood their children’s worlds. And because I understood their children’s worlds so well, I was the artist who could translate all of that into a photograph.

As I approached the entrance to the Straubs’ home, I took a slight detour to glance down the exterior stone steps that led to the garden apartment. The shades were down. The lights were out. It appeared no one was there.

I returned to the main steps of the front entrance, noting the lanterns on either side, which looked to be original nineteenth century. Amelia greeted me at the door in slacks and bare feet with a fresh pedicure. Her glossy brown hair was pulled up loosely in a clip. She wore gold Aztec coin earrings and a matching necklace. It was expensive jewelry, but unconventional and effortless. If you didn’t know anything about jewelry, it might seem understated.

She shone her smile on me, and I experienced the same sensation of warmth and light that I’d experienced upon meeting her. It was as though she saw something extraordinary in me.

“Natalie thinks she’s too old to have a babysitter.” Amelia spoke in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. “But she feels like you’re her friend.” She led me into the kitchen and offered me a blue reactive-glaze mug filled with hot lemon water. She sank down onto one of the counter stools, and as she did, her smile faded. “All our evenings out. It’s the nature of our work. Relationships.