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The millionaire fired 37 nannies… until one housemaid did the impossible. My name is Ricardo Mendonza Albuquerque, I am 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 become chaos that not even all the money in the world could put in order. I am the founder of Mantec, a tech company valued at more than one billion reais. I have everything—on the surface. A mansion in Morumbi, luxury cars, a bank account that could sustain entire generations. But when the heart is empty, square meters and zeros on a screen only echo. During the last two weeks, 37 nannies have 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. Agency staff already have me on a blacklist. They call me the impossible case. It’s not my fault, not even my daughters’. It’s the wound Claris left behind—open, festering, like a silence that screams inside every room. The house that once vibrated with laughter, music, and the smell of homemade bread, now smells of paint on the walls, broken toys, and swallowed tears. My daughters… God, my daughters. Mariana, the eldest, 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 take her place, Dad. No one. Since then, every nanny who enters 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 insects in shoes, block doors with glue, hide food in drawers. Their laughter when planning mischief sounds almost like a shield against pain. Laura, ten, fights a different battle. Since Claris died, she pulls out clumps of her own hair. There are bald patches on her head—marks of anxiety that even the most expensive psychologists haven’t been able to stop. Julia, at nine, suffers panic attacks, especially at night. Sometimes I hear her scream her mother’s name from across the hallway and I stand frozen outside her door, not knowing how to help. Sofía, eight, has started wetting the bed again. Not out of carelessness, but out of fear, emotional regression her mind can’t control. And finally, Isabela, my little three-year-old, who barely speaks since losing her mother —she whispers one or two words and only eats when she falls asleep. Today, as I watched through the window while the latest nanny ran out with her uniform torn and her hair dyed green—some cruel prank from the twins—I felt a mixture 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 disappear. “Mr. Mendonza, there are no agencies left on the list. The last ones have labeled us as an impossible case.” “So we’ve exhausted the professional options,” I answered, drained. “There is an alternative, sir. We could hire a housemaid, at least to keep the house standing while we search for another solution.” I sighed. At that moment, anything that could restore a minimum sense of order felt like a miracle. “Do it. Anyone who agrees to come in.” A few kilometers away, in Capão Redondo, a young woman named Luía Oliveira was waking up at 5:30 in the morning. She was 25, with the permanent exhaustion of someone who works for two and dreams for ten. Her father, a retired bricklayer. Her mother, a sweets vendor. Since she was 18 she had cleaned houses to pay for her night classes in child psychology. 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. 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 toward a house drowning in grief and rage—six girls who had declared war on the world. Two hours later, the taxi stopped before the tall wrought-iron gates of the Mendonza Albuquerque mansion. Luía stepped out, simple in a white blouse and worn jeans. She carried an old backpack, her curly hair tied in a makeshift bun, and dark eyes that seemed to observe everything without fear. From the window on the upper floor, six pairs of eyes watched her. “Another victim,” murmured Mariana in a cold tone. The twins laughed in unison. “We’ll see how long this one lasts.” When the maid crossed the threshold, Ricardo received her in the study. He tried to explain, but didn’t know where to begin. “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 for cleaning, not for taking care of the children.” “Exactly. Nothing more.” We were genuinely moved by this one. Comment ‘GLAD’ and the full story is right there in the comments.