When I hired Lauren through an agency, she was perfect. Punctual, responsible, caring—my six-year-old daughter, Amy, adored her from day one.
Lauren had this natural way with children that you can’t fake or learn from a book. It was like she’d known Amy her whole life.
“Mommy, can Lauren come over every day?” Amy would ask, her eyes wide with excitement whenever Lauren was scheduled to babysit.
Lauren would arrive with a smile that lit up the room and a canvas bag filled with books, art supplies, and little educational games. She never relied on screen time to keep Amy occupied, which was something I deeply appreciated.
“Kids need real connection,” she told me once as she helped Amy build a castle out of recycled cardboard boxes. “The iPad will always be there when they grow up.”
But one of Amy’s favorite things about Lauren was her lullabies. Every night when I worked late, Lauren would tuck Amy in and sing these soft, beautiful melodies.
They were something I had never heard before. They felt unique, almost as if she had made them up herself.
“Lauren’s songs make the monsters go away,” Amy told me one morning over breakfast. “They make my heart feel warm.”
The first time I heard Lauren sing, I was coming home early and caught the tail end of her lullaby through the crack in Amy’s bedroom door. Her voice was hauntingly beautiful, flowing with emotion that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her.
I stood there, not wanting to interrupt the moment, feeling like I was witnessing something almost sacred.
One evening, as I was tucking Amy into bed, I casually asked, “How do you like Lauren? Is she nice to you when I’m not around?”
Amy beamed. “She’s great, Mommy! We made cookies today, and she taught me how to measure flour. And she never gets mad when I spill stuff.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I said, smoothing her covers.
“But…” Amy’s smile faltered slightly.
“But what, sweetie?”
Amy hesitated, then whispered, “Sometimes, I feel weird when she sings.”
I frowned. “Weird how? Does it make you uncomfortable?”