The Routine

The sheet Mr. Enrico handed me was still in my hands. White paper, bold printed letters marking each line like military orders.

I sat on the couch and started reading — I had to follow this routine, after all. But I had a feeling there'd be surprises.

I took a deep breath before I began.

7:00 AM — Wake up.

"Pedro must be woken punctually. Do not allow him to sleep past the designated time. Remove the pacifier immediately, open the curtains, and encourage him to start the day."

I frowned. Encourage? He's only two. What do they expect — for him to wake up reciting poetry?

7:15 AM — Hygiene.

"Brush teeth with fluoride-free toothpaste, wash face three times, comb hair. Do not allow complaints."

Good Lord. Not even my brothers — who were older than this kid — did things with this much fuss.

7:30 AM — Breakfast.

"One slice of gluten-free whole-grain bread, one organic fruit (rotate between apple, pear, papaya), 200ml of lactose-free milk heated to 37 degrees."

I laughed out loud. Pedro glanced at me, trying to understand.

"Sorry," I said, and he turned his attention back to the TV.

"Thirty-seven degrees? Who measures milk temperature like that?"

8:00 AM — Flashcard session.

"Present pictures and words, train visual memory and repetition. Each session must last 20 minutes with five-minute intervals."

I closed my eyes and sighed. Flashcards?

9:00 AM — Classical music.

"Play Mozart, Beethoven, or Vivaldi. Pedro must sit upright for fifteen minutes, listening."

Oh my God.

Was this serious?

9:30 AM — Motor activity.

"Guided play with building blocks, mazes, or puzzle pieces. Stimulate concentration and problem-solving."

10:30 AM — Snack.

"Whole-grain crackers without sugar and natural juice (orange or apple)."

11:00 AM — Language lesson.

"Each day, one word in English, Spanish, and French. Record in the journal."

I rubbed my face in disbelief. One word in three different languages? For a baby? Who doesn't even talk?

12:00 PM — Lunch.

"Brown rice, lean protein, steamed vegetables. No fried food, no salt. Filtered water in a glass cup. Teach proper utensil grip."

1:00 PM — Nap.

"Maximum 1 hour and 15 minutes. If he sleeps beyond the designated time, he must be woken immediately."

I looked at Pedro, sitting on the carpet with his crocheted frog pressed against his chest. The pacifier bobbed slowly in his mouth. He didn't look like a little genius in training. He just looked... tired. A toddler who wanted to be held.

2:30 PM — Reading session.

"Read short children's books, show images, encourage word repetition."

3:00 PM — Snack.

"Plain unsweetened yogurt. One organic fruit."

3:30 PM — Coordination lesson.

"Guided drawing, finger painting. Correct improper posture."

4:30 PM — Reasoning session.

"Memory games, large-piece puzzles."

5:30 PM — Bath.

"Warm water at 36 degrees. Neutral soap. White towel only."

"White towel. Dear God, the man even has a thing about towels."

6:00 PM — Dinner.

"Vegetable soup. Small slice of whole-grain bread."

7:00 PM — Music session.

"Sing children's songs with instrumental accompaniment. Television music prohibited."

7:45 PM — Prepare for bed.

"Change into pajamas, brush teeth, brief reading. Put to bed at 8:00 PM sharp. No lights on, no talking after goodnight."

The sheet ended with larger lettering:

"IMPORTANT: Any deviation from the routine must be reported immediately to Mr. Enrico."

I dropped the paper on the side table and shook my head. Who treats a two-year-old like a programmed robot?

I looked at Pedro again. His eyes were fixed on the television, pacifier firm, hugging his frog like it was his anchor in the world. He didn't look at me, didn't care about my presence. All that existed was the cartoon on the screen.

I bit my lip, feeling a pang in my chest.

To Mr. Enrico, Pedro was a project.

To me... he was just a child who needed to be loved.

I moved closer, slowly, and sat on the floor next to him. He didn't look at me, but I could feel his calm breathing. So small, so trapped inside a schedule that would suffocate even an adult.

I picked up the paper again, stared at that absurd list, and nearly burst out laughing from sheer disbelief.

If Mr. Enrico thought I was going to turn this boy into a mini Einstein, he was wrong.

All I wanted was to give Pedro something that wasn't written on any of those lines: affection.

No two-year-old needs all that. He just needs to feel safe, cared for, and loved. Nothing more.

I tried to interact with him and checked the stupid schedule — it was almost 10:30. Time for his snack.

"Pedro, it's snack time. I'm hungry — are you?"

He looked at me, attentive, but said nothing.

I held out my hand for him to take. He reached out and held mine. We walked to the kitchen together. The moment I stepped in, I found two women — one middle-aged and one older.

"Hello, Miss Clara. We'll serve the snack in the dining room shortly," the younger one said.

"Okay. Thank you."

"For the boy's meals, you wait in there. The kitchen is no place for a child," the older woman said with an air of arrogance.

Apparently Mr. Enrico wasn't the only one like that around here.

I took Pedro to the dining room. I set him in the wooden high chair and sat beside him. I started singing a little song about eating.

"Eat, eat, eat so Mama's happy. Eat, eat—"

"Shh!" the younger woman hissed, walking into the dining room.

I stopped singing.

"Don't stray from the routine. Mealtimes — no singing, no talking," she said.

"I... I didn't know."

"Look, just follow the rules. If you want to keep this job, follow the rules." She set a small bowl on the table.

"Nice to meet you, by the way. I'm Rosa. The grumpy old lady in the kitchen is Matilda." She winked at me.

"Nice to meet you! I'm Clara."

The crackers were colorless, and judging by Pedro's refusal, tasteless too.

"Come on, Pedro. It's yummy!" I said, and Rosa let out a little laugh.

"Does he always eat this?"

"We always serve it. Whether he actually eats it is another story," she whispered.

"So why don't we offer him something else?"

"Follow the routine!" she said.

She started to leave, then turned back to me.

"Oh — welcome." She smiled and walked out.

Pedro refused to eat. I tried a piece myself and saw just how bad it was. No flavor at all — nobody would eat that.

We left the dining room and went back to the TV room. We spent the rest of the hours watching cartoons, until he scooted closer and climbed into my lap. I stroked his hair as we kept watching together.

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