I noticed the glowing numbers on the digital clock embedded in my Audi’s dashboard and felt my chest tighten, not from traffic or heat but from something far deeper, something that resembled fear. It was only two forty in the afternoon. The streets of Milan shimmered under the summer sun, heat rising from the pavement in slow waves, yet my hands were cold against the leather steering wheel. I never left the office before nightfall. My life was engineered down to minutes and margins. Meetings stacked on meetings, quarterly forecasts, overseas calls, shareholders waiting on decisions. Control had always been my strongest currency. Today it had evaporated with one phone call.

“Mr. Bellini, I am so sorry. I cannot continue. I am quitting, effective immediately.”

The voice of the sixth caregiver in less than a year echoed inside my head long after the line went dead. Her words blended with the soft growl of the engine, creating a dull pressure behind my eyes. It was always the same conclusion. Carefully vetted professionals, glowing recommendations, advanced degrees in early childhood education, all of them leaving my house as if fleeing a disaster zone.

I clenched my jaw and pressed harder on the accelerator. I could not blame them. I could not even blame my former wife, Alessandra, who had walked out eight months earlier with hollow eyes and trembling hands, seeking refuge with her brother in Zurich.

“I am breaking, Marco,” she had whispered that morning, her voice frayed by exhaustion. “Three toddlers at once. The crying never stops. When they scream together I feel like my mind is tearing itself apart. I love them, I swear I do, but I am disappearing. I cannot be the mother they need. I cannot be your partner anymore.”