The Perfect Family

Everyone in the neighborhood envied the Richardsons. Perfect house, perfect jobs, perfect children. I was their nanny for three years before I discovered what happened to the children who weren't perfect enough.

The Richardsons hired me fresh out of college. The position offered excellent pay, a private suite above their three-car garage, and the opportunity to care for their twin six-year-olds, Emma and Ethan. Dr. Richardson was a renowned pediatric surgeon, and Mrs. Richardson ran a successful interior design firm. They were the epitome of upper-middle-class success—charitable, well-respected, and unfailingly polite.

The children were eerily well-behaved. They never argued, never threw tantrums, never disobeyed. They excelled in school, played multiple instruments, and participated in competitive sports. Their rooms were immaculate, their schedules meticulously organized.

At first, I attributed their exceptional behavior to good parenting. But as months passed, I noticed unsettling patterns. The children never spoke unless spoken to when their parents were present. They performed their daily routines with mechanical precision. And sometimes, I would catch them staring at nothing, their expressions blank, as if they had momentarily shut down.

The basement was strictly off-limits. "Dr. Richardson's home office," Mrs. Richardson explained. "He needs absolute privacy for his research." The door was always locked, the small window covered from the inside.