Lauren was wonderful when I hired her through an agency. She was always punctual, responsible, and loving, and my six-year-old daughter Amy adored her from day one.
There’s something about Lauren’s way with children that can’t be faked or learned from a book. She seemed like she had known Amy forever.
“Mom, can Lauren come every day?” Amy would ask excitedly whenever Lauren was watching her, her eyes wide with wonder.
Lauren’s smile would light up the room, and she’d bring a canvas bag full of books, art supplies, and games. What I really appreciated was that she never relied on screens to keep Amy occupied.
“Kids need real connection,” she told me once while helping Amy build a castle from old boxes. “When they grow up, the iPad will still be there.”
Lauren’s lullabies were one of Amy’s favorite things about her. Every night when I worked late, Amy would fall asleep to her soft, beautiful songs.
I had never heard those songs before. It was almost like Lauren had made them up herself—they were so unique.
One morning over breakfast, Amy told me, “Lauren’s songs scare away the monsters.” “They warm my heart.”
It was early one day when I first heard Lauren singing. Through the crack in Amy’s bedroom door, I caught the end of one song. Her voice was so beautiful it felt like you could hear the emotions pouring out from deep inside her.
I stood there for a while, not wanting to break the silence because it felt almost sacred.
One night, as I was putting Amy to bed, I asked her, “How do you like Lauren? Does she treat you well when I’m not around?”
Amy smiled. “She’s great, Mom!” She showed me how to measure flour while baking cookies today. She doesn’t get mad when I spill things.
I smoothed her covers and said, “That sounds wonderful.”
“But…” Amy’s smile faltered a bit.
“But what, honey?”
Amy thought for a moment, then whispered, “When she sings, sometimes I feel weird.”
I made a face. “Weird how? Like it makes you feel bad?”
Amy quickly shook her head. “No, no.” “I feel like I already know the songs.” Not because Lauren sings them every night, but because I’ve heard them before. A very long time ago. I don’t remember when, though.
A chill ran down my spine. There was something about the way Amy said that which scared me.
“Maybe they’re songs from school or TV?” I tried to sound casual.
Amy shook her head firmly.
“No. They’re unique. Nobody else sings them. That’s it. And… someone else I can’t remember.”
I wanted to dismiss it as a child’s imagination mixing dreams and reality, but the confused look in her eyes stayed with me.
That night, I couldn’t sleep as Amy’s words echoed over and over in my mind.
The next day after Lauren’s shift, I invited her for tea to get to know her better.
Honestly, there was nothing suspicious about Lauren. She had excellent references, passed a background check, and was wonderful with Amy.
Still, I was curious.
Lauren looked surprised and happy at the invitation. We sat on the back porch sipping chamomile tea while watching Amy play in the yard, which was close enough to see.
I smiled and said, “Amy talks about you all the time. You really impressed me.”
Lauren watched Amy chasing a butterfly. “What a sweet little girl. So bright and kind.”
I nodded, then cautiously shared what was on my mind. “Lauren, your lullabies are one of a kind and so beautiful. Did you write them yourself? Amy seems… really interested in them.”
Her face darkened immediately. After a pause, she said, “My mom used to sing those to me. She made up the music and the songs herself… then I passed them on to someone else.”
She seemed unsure what to say next, staring into her tea like the answers were hidden there.
“But that was a long time ago,” she added. “Feels like a different life.”
“Do you have kids of your own?” I asked.
Lauren’s expression shifted to pain. She set her teacup down gently, hands trembling.
“I… had a daughter.”
“Had.” That word sent a chill through me.
“What happened?” I asked softly.
Lauren took a shaky breath and looked past me at Amy picking dandelions. “I lost everything when my daughter was just a year old. Their car crashed, and they were gone. When I told my husband I was pregnant, he left me. It was just me with no one to help. I couldn’t work and care for her alone. I couldn’t even afford childcare.”
“For a while, I lived in my car and took my baby with me to job interviews,” she said. “Nobody wants to hire someone like that.”
She said, “I… couldn’t bear to watch her suffer.” “I chose the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”
I could see the pain etched in every line of her face.
“I let her go. Choosing to. She couldn’t have a better future with me, so I had to.”
I was sure she heard my heart pounding. My mind raced; I struggled to breathe.
“Sometimes I drive past that adoption center,” Lauren said. “To remind myself why I did it. That it wasn’t for me but for her.” She laughed bitterly. “Sounds awful, right?”
I said quietly, “No. Nothing sad about it.”
I knew I had to ask, even though I feared the answer.
My voice trembled as I said, “Lauren, did you give her up at this adoption center, by any chance?”
I showed her a photo of the agency where we adopted Amy, my hands shaking.
It was from the day we brought her home. I stood in front of the building holding a small bundle wrapped in a yellow blanket.
Lauren’s eyes widened in shock. “How do you know that place?”
Everything clicked at once.
The lullabies. The immediate bond. Amy’s words that the songs felt like they were from “a long, long time ago.”
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my voice.
“Lauren… Amy told me she knows your lullabies.”
She stared at me, confusion and dawning realization on her face.
“What do you mean?” she whispered, clearly beginning to understand.
I could hardly believe what I was saying.
“Amy has a family. We adopted her when she was just over a year old—five years ago.”
Lauren’s face went white, tears filling her eyes. She covered her mouth with her hands.
“No,” she whispered. “No, it can’t be.”
I softly said, “Her birthday is March 15th. She was born at Springfield Memorial.”
Tears streamed down Lauren’s face. “How did you figure that out? Those little details weren’t—”
“In the adoption papers?” I asked. “No, in her medical records that were given to us.”
I pulled Amy’s adoption papers from the filing cabinet, after hearing something about the lullabies, and placed them in a folder on the chair next to me.
“We can check the dates and records. But Lauren… Amy could be your real daughter.”
Lauren gasped, tears rolling down her cheeks. “No, this can’t be real,” she said. “It shouldn’t happen.”
But it was real. I hadn’t meant to hire Amy’s birth mother as her nanny, but I had.
“Did you know?” Lauren asked, her voice rough. “Did you know who I was when you hired me?”
“Of course not!” I quickly replied. “How could I? The adoption was finalized, you never knew our names, and we never knew yours. This is just…”
“A coincidence?” Lauren laughed until she cried. “Or fate?”
We both looked out at Amy blowing dandelions, unaware that a life-changing conversation was happening just yards away.
“Now what?” Lauren asked quietly.
I had no idea what to do. I wasn’t ready for this. There’s no parenting book for what to do when your adopted child’s birth mother ends up babysitting her.
I slowly said, “I guess that depends. What do you need?”
“You should know I didn’t come looking for her. I gave up that right, so I wouldn’t.”
“I know.”
“The agency sent me here because I needed a job,” she said. “But from the first moment I met her, I felt… I don’t know. Something. I thought I was good with kids.”
I placed my hand on hers. “Do you want Amy to know the truth?”
She shook her head, wiping tears. “No. She has a mom. You’re her mom. You raised her. You stuck by her.”
From the look in her eyes, I could tell she loved Amy deeply and was hurting.
“How about you?” I asked. “Since you know, can you keep watching her?”
She was silent a long time. “Can I still be part of her life? What if she never finds out who I am?”
I said softly, “I wouldn’t take that away from either of you.”
A few months later, on Amy’s birthday, Lauren showed up with balloons, flowers, and a cake she’d baked herself. She said she couldn’t watch that day because of a migraine, so I was surprised when she showed up at our door.
She took a deep breath, smiled through tears, and said,
“I gave her up. She might want to know me someday. You could tell her. I just want to be there for her now, even if it’s only to watch her grow.”
When I invited her to the party, tears filled my eyes.
She whispered, “Thank you. I want to be there for her in every way I can.”
I said, “Thank you for giving me the greatest gift of my life.”
Maybe this was meant to be. What made it even better was that Amy was thrilled to see Lauren that day.
Lauren became a quiet part of Amy’s life over time. She was always there, ready to help, but never overstepping. She never told Amy the truth, but loved her and celebrated every success as if it were her own.
Every night when she sang those special lullabies, Lauren gave Amy something truly hers—a thread to connect them across time and space.
And that was enough.