As far as I could tell, this movie was about parents who had two cute children they were determined to spend as little time with as possible. And so they hire a woman who constantly gaslights the kids and makes them doubt their own sanity; she takes them on fantastical trips, then says they never happened. She gives them the powers of flight and time travel, encourages them to surrender to the magic and enjoy themselves, then acts all affronted and accuses them of lying when they mention how fun the adventure was. The whole movie seemed to be introducing the concept of what a nanny was and, at the same time, arguing against ever employing one. The parents are so desperate to get away from their children that they pay this stranger to pretend to love the children, and Mary does—so well, in fact, that the children fall in love with her, the only adult (aside from a rando chimney sweep who takes a turn babysitting the children one afternoon when literally no one else will step up) who actually seems to want to be with them. The children are confused and manipulated, desperate for Mary’s love, which she doles out sparingly, just enough to keep them wanting more—and then she leaves them. Without warning, without saying goodbye, back in the care of two buffoons whose idea of parenting is to pass their children off to any paid stranger who walks through the door.

When the movie was over I found myself in trouble, terrified and sobbing and waiting outside the principal’s office for ripping up a bunch of the paper hats, and for screaming that I hated that stupid movie and also noting that Mary is a lying liar. I had never been in trouble in school, never even met the principal. Now look what I’d done. I was sure I’d end up in jail.

The office door opened, and the secretary stepped into the hall. She was old like a grandma and wore a pumpkin-colored sweater. She gave me a paper Dixie cup of water and sat in the kid-sized chair beside me.

“I heard what happened,” she said. “Don’t tell anyone, but I hate that movie, too.”

I drank the water and stopped crying. “Here,” she said, and uncapped a black Sharpie. “I’m going to write your name on your cup; you can have as much water as you want. Okay?”

The cup was white, and it had blue dots in the swirly shapes of flowers all over it. I asked her if she would write on the bottom instead. She smiled. “It is a pretty cup,” she said, and wrote my name, spelled the right way, on the cup’s flat bottom.