City of Hustle and Hearts
KATIE.
The icy wind slapped me across the face the moment I stepped outside, stealing the warmth from my lungs. I shivered and pulled my scarf higher over my mouth, silently questioning—for what had to be the hundredth time—what kind of person willingly traded the warm Caribbean sunshine for a New York winter.
Me.
I am Katie Summers
Back home in Saint Lucia, February meant crystal-clear beaches, salty ocean breezes, and sunshine that kissed your skin from sunrise to sunset. Here, it meant thirty-two-degree mornings, biting winds that found every gap in your clothes, and praying your fingers didn’t freeze before you reached the subway.
I tugged my black down jacket tighter around me and picked up my pace. Beneath it, I wore a long-sleeved shirt, a thick sweater, black jeans, and leather boots. Even dressed like I was preparing to climb a mountain, the cold still managed to seep into my bones.
Living in the Bronx meant my weekdays always started before sunrise. Every morning I caught the No. 2 train, transferred to the No. 5, and joined thousands of other New Yorkers making their daily pilgrimage into Manhattan.
By the time I reached the station, the platform was already overflowing with commuters. Some cradled oversized coffee cups as if they were life preservers. Others stared blankly at their phones, while a few bounced impatiently on their heels, desperate for the train to arrive.
A gust of icy air rushed through just before the familiar screech of metal echoed off the walls.
Finally.
The train rolled into the station, and the peaceful silence disappeared instantly.
The doors slid open, and the crowd surged forward as one. There was no such thing as personal space during rush hour. Elbows bumped, backpacks collided, and everyone squeezed through the narrow doors, determined not to be left behind.
No one expected a seat.
Getting on the train was victory enough.
I found a tiny patch of floor near one of the poles and wrapped my gloved hand around it before someone else could claim it. Around me, strangers swayed shoulder to shoulder as the train lurched forward, each of us lost in our own thoughts while sharing the same overcrowded ride.
Thankfully, I always left home ridiculously early. Missing one train could throw off your entire morning, and I had learned that lesson the hard way more than once.
Such was life in New York City.
The city never slowed down. It moved with relentless determination, dragging everyone along with it whether they were ready or not.
Some days I loved its energy.
Other days, I missed home so much it made my chest ache.
I missed hearing the waves instead of subway brakes.
I missed warm evenings instead of frozen sidewalks.
Almost an hour later, I stepped onto the streets of Manhattan. The buildings stretched endlessly toward the gray morning sky while streams of people hurried past me, each with somewhere to be.
I smiled to myself.
As exhausting as this city could be, there was something exciting about knowing that every day held the possibility of something new.
I made my way to the apartment building where I worked and stepped inside, grateful to escape the bitter wind.
The warmth wrapped around me instantly.
I rode the elevator to the fifth floor and glanced at my watch as the doors parted.
7:45 a.m.
Perfect.
Fifteen minutes early.
I smoothed the front of my jacket, took a quiet breath, and walked toward the apartment door.
Routine was comforting.
Every morning was the same.
At least, that’s what I believed as I reached for the doorbell.
The apartment was unusually quiet, the kind of peaceful silence that only existed before a one-year-old decided it was time to conquer the world.
Smiling to myself, I quietly pushed open the nursery door.
Morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. Sara was still fast asleep in her crib, clutching her favorite stuffed bunny against her tiny chest. A few wisps of dark hair had escaped from her little ponytail, and one chubby foot had somehow found its way outside the blanket.
My heart melted.
Every morning, I told myself I wouldn’t stand there staring at her like a lovestruck fool.
Every morning, I failed.
I walked over to her crib and gently brushed a curl away from her forehead.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” I whispered. “Time to wake up. I have a wonderful day planned for us.”
She let out the sweetest little sigh and stretched both arms above her head. Then she rubbed her sleepy eyes with tiny fists before blinking up at me.
The moment she recognized me, her entire face lit up.
A smile spread from ear to ear, and she reached both little arms toward me.
Well... there went my heart.
I lifted her into my arms, and she buried her face against my neck, wrapping me in the biggest hug her tiny body could manage.
“Good morning,” I said, kissing the top of her head. “I love you.”
She leaned back just enough to look at me.
“I... luv... ooo.”
The words were barely understandable, but they were perfect.
I laughed, and she giggled right along with me, as though she knew she’d made my entire morning.
Sara wasn’t my daughter, but some days it certainly felt like she had adopted me.
Her parents had entrusted me with the most precious person in their lives, and I never took that responsibility for granted.
She had become my little ray of sunshine.
No matter how exhausting the subway ride had been or how much I missed home, one smile from Sara chased every worry away.
After breakfast, I bundled her into her puffy pink coat, tiny mittens, and knitted hat.
“Ready for another adventure?” I asked.
She clapped her hands enthusiastically.
Every day was an adventure with Sara.
Some mornings we spent hours at the park, where she laughed every time the pigeons scattered as she toddled toward them. Twice a week we attended Mommy and Me classes, where she loved dancing far more than sitting still. Wednesdays were reserved for story time at the library, and on our quieter days, I met up with the other nannies so the children could play together.
Between caring for Sara and keeping up with our busy schedule, there wasn’t much time left for a social life.
Meeting Mr. Right?
That seemed about as likely as New York having a tropical winter.
Around lunchtime, I met the other nannies at our favorite spot in the park while the little ones happily played in the sandbox.
“You wouldn’t believe what the family did yesterday,” Ava groaned, shaking her head.
Liv laughed. “Try me.”
“She walked right past me this morning without even saying good morning. Then she left her breakfast dishes in the sink because apparently she thinks I’m the maid too.”
I frowned.
“Seriously?”
Ava nodded.
“And last week she actually told me I was eating too much of their food.”
Our mouths fell open.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“I wish I was.”
Mia sighed dramatically.
“That reminds me. When I got to work this morning, there was a mountain of laundry waiting for me. My employer expects every single piece washed, dried, folded, and put away before she gets home tonight.”
Rose rolled her eyes.
“At least yours is only laundry. Mine inspects every dish after I wash it. If she finds one tiny water spot, she makes me wash the entire sink full again.”
“But don’t they have a dishwasher?” I asked.
“They do,” Rose replied with a laugh that sounded more exhausted than amused. “Apparently it’s only there for decoration.”
We all laughed, although there wasn’t much humor in their stories.
The conversation grew quieter after that.
Most of the girls stayed because they had no choice. Back home, parents, siblings, and children depended on the money they sent every month. Walking away from a bad employer wasn’t an option when your family relied on you.
Susan and I exchanged a glance. Neither of us knew what to say. Our employers treated us with kindness, while our friends carried burdens we couldn’t begin to understand.
I wished there were something we could do to make their lives easier.
Listening to them always reminded me how fortunate I was.
My employers treated me with kindness and respect. They trusted me completely with Sara and never made me feel like I was “just the nanny.”
In fact, after my very first month, they surprised me with a bonus simply to thank me for taking good care of her.
Kindness like that wasn’t something I took for granted.
I looked across the playground just in time to see Sara wobbling toward me with her stuffed bunny dragging along the ground behind her.
The moment she spotted me, her face lit up.
“Mama...” she squealed before correcting herself the best she could.
“Katie!”
My heart squeezed.
I scooped her into my arms, laughing as she planted a slobbery kiss on my cheek.
If someone had told me a year ago that leaving my family and my beautiful island of Saint Lucia would lead me here—to this little girl who had completely stolen my heart—I never would have believed them.
Yet somehow, standing there with Sara wrapped in my arms, New York didn’t feel quite so far from home anymore.
