My name is Ricardo Mendonza Albuquerque, I’m 36 years old, and a little over a year ago, I lost my wife Claris, victim of an aggressive cancer that consumed her in barely six months. Since then, my life and that of my six daughters has turned into chaos—chaos that not even all the money in the world could fix.
I am the founder of Mantec, a tech company valued at over 1 billion reais. On the surface, I have everything. A mansion in Morumbi, luxury cars, a bank account that could support entire generations. But when the heart is empty, square meters and bank zeros only echo.
During the last two weeks, 37 nannies walked through the doors of my house.
Some ran away crying, others swore they would never return—not even for all the gold in São Paulo. The agency staff already have me on a blacklist. They call me “the impossible case.” It’s not my fault, nor even the girls’. It’s the wound Claris left behind, still open, festering like a scream trapped inside every room.
The house that once vibrated with laughter, songs, and the smell of homemade bread now smells like wall paint, broken toys, and swallowed sobs.
My daughters… God, my daughters.
Mariana, the oldest, is 12, and has the sharpest mind I’ve ever seen in a child. She leads her sisters like a small army at war with the world.
She was the one who told me on the day of her mother’s funeral:
“No woman will replace her, Dad. No one.”
Since then, every nanny who comes in becomes an enemy to be defeated.
Then there are the twins, Beatriz and Bianca, six years old. Two little girls who smile while conspiring. They put fake bugs in shoes, block doors with glue, hide food in drawers.
Their laughter, when they plan mischief, sounds almost like a shield against pain.
Laura, who is 10, fights a different battle. Since Claris died, she pulls out strands of her own hair. There are bald patches on her head—signs of anxiety that not even the most expensive psychologists have managed to stop.
Julia, at 9, suffers from panic attacks, especially at night.
Sometimes I hear her screaming her mother’s name from across the hallway, and I freeze in front of the door, not knowing how to help her.
Sofía, 8 years old, has started wetting the bed again. Not out of carelessness, but fear—an emotional regression her mind can’t control.
And finally Isabela, my 3-year-old, who barely speaks since she lost her mother. She whispers one or two words and only eats when she’s falling asleep.
Today, as I watched from the window the last nanny running away—uniform torn, hair dyed green from some cruel prank by the twins—I felt a mix of shame and despair.
Thirty-seven in two weeks.
Thirty-seven women who all said the same thing before leaving:
“These girls don’t need discipline. They need a mother—and you don’t have one to give them.”
My personal assistant, Augusto, called while I was still watching the taxi drive away.
“Mr. Mendonza, there are no agencies left on the list. The last ones have classified us as an impossible case.”
“So we’ve exhausted professional options,” I answered weakly.
“There is one alternative, sir.”
“We can hire a housemaid—at least to keep the house standing while we find another solution.”
I sighed. At that moment, anything that brought even the slightest sense of order felt like a miracle.
“Do it. Anyone who agrees to come.”
Several kilometers away, in Capão Redondo, a young woman named Luía Oliveira woke up at 5:30 a.m. She was 25 years old and carried the permanent exhaustion of someone who works for two and dreams for ten.
Her father, a retired construction worker.
Her mother, a sweets vendor.
Since she was 18, she had cleaned houses to pay for her child psychology night classes.
That morning, as she prepared to take three buses to her usual job, she received a call from the agency she occasionally worked for.
“Luía, we have an emergency. A mansion in Morumbi. Double pay. The client needs someone today.”
“Double?” she asked, staring at the bills on the table.
“Send me the address. I’ll be there in two hours.”
She didn’t know, of course, that she was heading to a house drowned in grief—and to the fury of six girls who had declared war on the world.
Two hours later, the taxi stopped in front of the tall wrought-iron gates of the Mendonza Albuquerque mansion.
Luía stepped out in a simple white blouse and worn jeans. She carried an old backpack, her curly hair tied in an improvised bun, and dark eyes that seemed to observe everything without fear.
From the window on the top floor, six pairs of eyes watched her.
“Another victim,” Mariana muttered in a cold tone.
The twins laughed in unison.
“We’ll see how long this one lasts.”
When the housemaid crossed the threshold, Ricardo received her in the office.
He tried to explain, but didn’t know where to start.
“The house needs a deep cleaning,” he finally said. “And the girls are going through a difficult time.”
“Mr. Augusto told me it would only be cleaning work, not childcare.”
“Exactly. Nothing more.”