Huhu, my dearest Sunday Lovers,

we’re back for Part 2. And this time, we’re jumping right in. The life lessons can wait. You’re welcome.

Where did we leave off? Right: in the middle of the night, with me looking for somewhere to sleep, because someone had helped himself to my bed.

 

Buffalo Wings

After my Canada trip, the air in that house got weirder and weirder.

One weekend, my host mom was away and asked me to help my host dad with the kids. Of course, I agreed. As a small thank-you for the overtime (and for giving up my free weekend), my host dad took the kids and me out for buffalo wings. The next day, my host mom was mad at me. Again. Because her husband had taken me out to dinner, while she always had to cook.

Buffalo wings. That’s all I’m gonna say.

The air got thicker. I didn’t feel welcome anymore. Whatever I did seemed to become another problem.

 

The Sunday My Underwear Went Missing

Since I’d basically worked the whole previous weekend, I got the next one completely off. I stayed at a friend’s place and came home on Sunday around noon. The plan was simple: shower, get dressed, meet my friends for dinner. And stay as invisible as possible in between.

The dad asked me, once again, to watch the kids so he could hit the store real quick. Sure. I showered, put on my bathrobe, and went back to my room to get dressed.

And there it was. Or rather, there it wasn’t. My bras, my underwear, my lingerie: gone. Even my medical grandma bras. Who steals the grandma bras?

I stood there staring at my closet for at least five minutes. Someone had taken my stuff. And suddenly, I remembered all the times my things had looked a little… rearranged. Maybe Hannah, the teenage girl, had borrowed something? Girls try things on. Girls borrow stuff. I was desperately looking for an explanation I could live with.

But the next moment made me let go of every last bit of hope and niceness. Ethan, our preteen boy, came into my room. Smiling. And asked if I was looking for something. If I was missing something. I looked him straight in the eyes and told him: that’s enough. I want my stuff back. He shrugged and said he didn’t know what I meant.

I put on my old, dirty clothes. I cried my heart out. And then I started searching…

 

The Search

At this point, I was actually hoping Hannah had taken my underwear. Or even the dad. I was not mentally ready to find it where I already suspected it was.

I searched the whole house while that little brat played Xbox. Hannah’s room. Even the parents’ bedroom, hoping some grown man had gotten naughty. Anywhere that might give me a different answer. Anything was better than the truth.

My subconscious knew exactly where it was. But I refused to go there, until I’d searched everywhere else. Then I went into his room. I scanned it. Knowing it was probably well hidden. And close to him. His bed.

I found all of it. My underwear, my bras, my lingerie. Under his mattress. Wrapped in towels. Like trophies in a safe.

I started crying uncontrollably. I couldn’t stop. I took photos, in case nobody believed me. Again.

Then I stormed out of the house. My host dad showed up and saw me crying. More than crying. He asked what had happened, and I couldn’t hold it back. I told him what his son had done. He asked me to keep quiet about it until his wife, my all-time favorite host mom, got home that evening. I told him I couldn’t go back into that house. So I left for a friend’s place.

 

The F***ing Problem

Later that night, I came home. The dad had talked to his wife. I saw the look on her face. She was already annoyed that I was “having a problem” again. She opened the conversation with: “So what is it now? What’s the problem?”

I lost it. I told her I’d show her the f***ing problem.

So I brought the mom and dad into their son’s room and pulled up the mattress. Part of me was sure he’d put everything back once he realized I was looking. He hadn’t. One bra after another. One pair of underwear after another.

My light-blue bra hurt the most. My first real Victoria’s Secret bra. I hadn’t even worn it once. After the pain, the doctors, the surgery, I’d finally had my little fitting-room moment. And now I was holding that bra up in front of his parents, in their son’s bedroom.

He didn’t just take a bra. He took the first thing in years that made me feel good in my own body. He took my courage. My joy.

To be fair, the dad looked about as uncomfortable as a man can look. And the only thing the mom had to say was that I’d get a key to my room.

Wow. Groundbreaking. I had raised concerns about my privacy. Multiple times. Now my underwear had turned up in her son’s bed, and the solution was for me to lock my door.

 

Apparently, I Needed to Cool Down

Somehow, I ended up without underwear. And somehow, I ended up being the one to blame.

It was decided that I’d take a few days off to “cool down.” Right. The girl without underwear needed to cool down. I stayed with a friend. My underwear stayed at the crime scene.

Meanwhile, I reached out to the agency, the organization that was supposed to look out for us au pairs. Their advice: don’t overreact. We’ve all been through puberty. These things happen.

Well. I remember going through puberty. I also remember getting through it without stealing anyone’s underwear. Or drying off half-naked in someone else’s room.

But who was I to judge? I was just the girl who’d paid 1,000 bucks to be a nanny. My host family, on the other hand, had had au pair after au pair. Loyal, paying customers. I couldn’t help wondering how much that affected whose side of the story carried more weight.

Right after I called the agency, my host mom got the memo. And the messages started. Mean ones. Blaming me for what had happened, and for how her son was feeling.

So there I was. In a foreign country. Almost no underwear, wearing the same bra for the fourth day in a row. With open wounds on my breasts, hidden under grandma bras and oversized T-shirts so nobody would see if blood soaked through. I was trying to heal. Trying to do my job. Trying to keep the most personal things I owned to myself. And somehow, I was supposed to take responsibility for everyone else’s feelings, too.

Could someone please tell me: how many different ways was I supposed to protect my breasts as a woman in the 21st century?

 

The Apology Intervention

Luckily, I had great friends. And their host families told me what nobody in my house had: this was not normal. Not even close. They backed my decision to leave. Finally. How was I supposed to go back to a normal life in that house, with so many boundaries crossed?

But since I give people approximately seventeen chances to fix things, I agreed to a family apology meeting. A friend drove me over. She wasn’t allowed to come in.

It got strange, fast. One by one, each kid had to apologize to me for “making me feel uncomfortable.” Which made zero sense, since my problem had never been with the girls. It was with their mom, and the way she’d handled her son.

And then the mom had the nerve to make it sound like Hannah had something to do with my missing underwear. So Hannah started apologizing. Deeply. Sincerely. For something she knew nothing about.

And that’s when I snapped. I told Hannah the truth. About her mom. And about her brother.

I know now that it was wrong to put that on the shoulders of a fourteen-year-old girl. But it was also wrong to put the blame on her. And on me. In that moment, it felt like standing up for both of us. Guess what? I made it worse. Hannah stormed out, yelling at her mom and her brother. Ethan yelled at me for telling her. Our little cult-like apology summit was over. And so was I. I got kicked out.

 

Two Weeks to Save the Best Time of My Life

That night, I followed my friend back to her place. In my host mom’s car. And, well, I kept it. As insurance. For my stuff, and for the money she still owed me. (We’ll get back to that.)

It was clear: I had to move out. The deal with the agency was two weeks to find a new family. Otherwise, I’d have to leave the program. And the country. Two weeks to save “the best time of my life.”

For those two weeks, I lived out of a suitcase, rotating between three host families. Three families that weren’t mine, and still took better care of me than mine ever had.

It’s basically online dating. Just harder. You have two weeks to find someone, like them, and move in together. No pressure.

So I made a priority list. One: close by, so I could keep my friends. They had become my family. The only people I felt safe with. Two: no teenagers. Small kids. Kids who don’t care about underwear at all. I was ready for diapers. Enthusiastically, even.

The first suggestions were all way too far away. So I waited, while the clock kept ticking. A couple of days before I would have been kicked out of the program, my counselor suggested a family in my neighborhood. Small catch: two au pairs had left them within six months. So it might get… rough.

“How old are the kids?” “Two and five.” “Deal.” I mean, how hard could it be?

Sure, two au pairs in six months was a red flag. But I had a departure story of my own that needed some explaining. Maybe it’s like real dating: someone else’s nightmare can be your perfect match. After all, the au pair before me had described my first family as “the best.” And look how that turned out.

So I met them for dinner. I was completely honest about my story and asked about theirs. And somehow, we got each other. I gave it a shot. It was a match. (More on that in Part 3.)

 

The Au Pair Divorce

Moving day. Five months in, my host mom still hadn’t paid me right. My host dad had even offered to help, but out of goodwill, I’d let it go. Well. Here we were. Our deal: I’d bring back her car, she’d pay me what she owed me. Car for money. Seemed fair.

My friends helped me pack and waited outside. Then came the paperwork: our official au pair divorce papers. All of us around the kitchen table, signing off on our separation.

I handed over the car keys and my au pair phone. And while my host mom was writing my final paycheck, Hannah took the case off the phone and showed her parents the cracked back. I’d dropped it a few weeks earlier. One last sting. Timing: impeccable. Honestly? I kind of had it coming.

Of course, my host mom got upset again and started thinking about cutting my pay. My host dad stepped in: “Let’s just finish this. It’s fine.” Apparently, we were all exhausted by the divorce proceedings. I signed, grabbed the check, said goodbye, and walked out.

 

Chicken Nuggets

For the first time in months, I could breathe. I looked back at the house, let my brain replay everything, and had tears in my eyes. But I felt free. I jumped into my friend’s car with all my stuff. Especially my wonderful bras and panties. Every single one of them. I’d survived. And I smiled.

“Why are you smiling?” she asked.

Because before returning the car, I’d driven around the block. Fifteen times. On purpose. Until the gas needle was deep in the red and the tank was almost out of gas. For months, she’d handed me that car with the needle in the red. So I gave it back exactly the way she’d always given it to me: red, empty, and running out of gas. With a little luck, she wouldn’t even make it to the next gas station.

Mature? No. Satisfying? Very. Therapy for me, a farewell present for her. To this day, it warms my heart to imagine my all-time favorite host mom stranded on the side of the road.

On the way, we stopped at Buffalo Wild Wings. And I ordered chicken nuggets. My little victory meal.

Finally, a fresh start. With a side of nuggets. I figured the rooster wouldn’t mind.

 

Educate Your Sons

As you know, every Sundays Plot comes with something to take away. Occasionally, even an unsolicited life lesson.

I didn’t tell you this story to shame a young boy figuring out life and puberty. I told you because I know what it feels like to raise a concern and somehow become the problem yourself. Honestly, I thought we’d come further than blaming girls and women for other people’s behavior.

There’s a message I keep seeing on my feed: “Protect your daughters.” No. “Educate your sons.” Every time I see it, I think of that house. Because teaching girls to protect their boundaries can never replace teaching boys to respect them.

Ethan needed guidance. I needed privacy and support. His parents were responsible for both. I spoke up several times, and when I turned to the agency, I was told not to overreact. How dare they ignore the signs of a catastrophe right in front of them? They were the ones in charge. They were supposed to handle this the right way. Instead, they chose to look away and hope for the best.

Looking back, I’m not angry at Ethan anymore. I was, for a long time. But I’ve forgiven him. He was just a boy. That doesn’t make his behavior okay or erase what happened. He still took something special from me that day.

And his mom? Honestly, I’m still mad at her. I hope she occasionally runs out of gas. Somewhere in the desert.

I hope Ethan learned that a closed door means something and that respecting other people’s boundaries isn’t optional. Me? I learned never to save my nicest underwear for a special occasion. After everything it took to feel good in that bra, simply getting to wear it was occasion enough. Wear your favorite bra. Celebrate every day with the perfect fit. Preferably before it ends up under someone else’s mattress.

As for Ethan, I hope his grown-up life includes all the beautiful bras his heart desires. But please, ask first.

With love, and happy Sunday, 

Victoria x