In my senior year of high school, my dad suffered a fall and stayed at home to recuperate, so I was forced to end my stay on campus and go home to prepare for the exam.
On the first night after returning home, I discovered that there was a very strange female nanny in the house. She always cooks for one person, but never serves it on the table; she never takes the initiative to speak after nine o'clock in the evening, but someone in the kitchen will still call me in the voice of a family member; in the empty room at the end of the second floor that has been sealed all year round, the club light shines through in the middle of the night, and the wet footprints of children will appear at the door.
What's even weirder is that my mother and she seem to have already defaulted to a set of rules.
Don't respond to sounds in the kitchen after 9 p. M.
The first bite of porridge for breakfast must be given to my sister first.
If the nanny asks "How many people are in the house today?", My mother can only answer.
At first I thought these rules were to prevent nannies. But when the broken rules, old photos, and an accident that had been erased ten years ago came to light, I realized that what this family was really afraid of was not her at all.
But the person who should not be at home is being recognized by us bit by bit.
