When I hired Lauren through an agency, she seemed perfect. Always punctual, responsible, and kind-hearted, and my six-year-old daughter Amy took to her instantly.
There was something genuine about Lauren’s way with kids—something you can’t fake or learn from a book. It was as if she had known Amy forever.
“Mom, can Lauren come over every day?” Amy would ask excitedly whenever Lauren was scheduled to babysit.
Lauren would arrive smiling, carrying a canvas bag filled with books, art supplies, and games. She never used screen time to entertain Amy, which I really appreciated.
“Kids need real connection,” Lauren once told me while helping Amy build a castle out of old cardboard boxes. “The iPad will still be there when they’re older.”
Amy’s favorite thing about Lauren was her lullabies. On nights I worked late, Lauren would tuck Amy in and sing soft, beautiful songs I’d never heard before—almost as if she had created them herself.
One morning at breakfast, Amy said, “Lauren’s songs scare away the monsters and make my heart feel warm.”
I heard Lauren sing for the first time early one morning, catching the last notes through Amy’s bedroom door. Her voice was hauntingly beautiful, full of deep emotion. I quietly stood there, feeling like I was witnessing something sacred.
One night, while tucking Amy in, I asked, “Do you like Lauren? Does she treat you well when I’m not there?”
Amy smiled, “She’s great, Mom! We baked cookies today, and she showed me how to measure flour. She never gets mad when I spill things.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I said, smoothing her covers.
“But…” Amy’s smile faltered a little.
“But what, sweetheart?”
Amy hesitated, then whispered, “Sometimes, when she sings, I feel weird.”
I frowned. “Weird how? Does it make you feel bad?”
“No, no,” Amy quickly shook her head. “It’s like I already know the songs—not because she sings them every night, but because I heard them a long time ago. I just don’t remember when.”
A chill ran down my spine. Something about how she said that scared me.
“Maybe they’re songs from school or TV?” I tried to sound casual.
Amy shook her head firmly. “No. They’re unique. No one else sings them. And… someone else I can’t remember.”
I tried to dismiss it as a child’s imagination, but Amy’s confused eyes stayed with me, haunting me through the night.
The next day, after Lauren’s shift, I invited her over for tea to get to know her better. She seemed surprised but pleased. We sat on the porch, drinking chamomile and watching Amy play nearby.
I smiled, “Amy talks about you all the time. You’ve really impressed me.”
Lauren watched Amy chasing a butterfly and said softly, “What a sweet, bright little girl.”
Then I carefully asked about the lullabies. “They’re beautiful and unique. Did you write them?”
Lauren’s face darkened. After a long pause, she said, “My mom used to sing those to me. She made up the songs and then I passed them on to someone else.”
She stared into her tea, lost in thought. “That was a long time ago… feels like a different life.”
“Do you have children?” I asked gently.
Lauren’s face turned pale. Her hands trembled as she set down her cup.
“I had a daughter,” she whispered.
My heart skipped.
“What happened?” I asked quietly.
Lauren took a shaky breath and looked toward Amy playing in the yard. “I lost everything when she was one. Our car crashed. My husband left when he found out I was pregnant. I was alone, couldn’t work or afford childcare.”
“For a while, I lived in my car, bringing my baby to job interviews. No one wanted to hire me like that.”
She said, “I couldn’t watch her suffer anymore.”
Her face tightened with pain. “I made the hardest choice—I let her go. I thought it was the only way she could have a better future.”
I felt my heart pounding.
“Sometimes I drive past that adoption center,” Lauren said, “to remind myself why I did it—not for me, but for her.” She laughed bitterly. “Sounds awful, right?”
I whispered, “No. There’s nothing sad about that.”
I had to ask the question swirling in my mind.
“Lauren, did you give her up at this adoption center?”
I showed her a photo of the agency where we adopted Amy—me holding her bundled in a yellow blanket.
Lauren’s eyes widened. “How do you know that place?”
Everything clicked.
The lullabies, the instant connection—Amy’s words about knowing the songs from “a long, long time ago.”
I took a deep breath. “Lauren, Amy told me she knows your lullabies.”
She stared at me, confused but starting to realize something.
“What do you mean?” she whispered.
I hesitated, then said, “Amy has a family. We adopted her when she was a little over a year old—five years ago.”
Lauren’s face drained of color. Tears filled her eyes, hands covering her mouth.
“No… It can’t be,” she said quietly.
I told her softly, “Her birthday is March 15. She was born at Springfield Memorial.”
More tears came. “How did you know?”
“Not from adoption papers,” I said, “but from medical records.”
I fetched Amy’s adoption file after her strange comment about the lullabies and put it in front of us.
“We can check the records and dates.” I said, “Lauren… Amy could be your daughter.”
Lauren gasped, tears streaming. “No, this can’t be real.”
But it was. I hadn’t meant to hire Amy’s biological mother as her nanny, but that’s exactly what happened.
“Did you know who I was when you started?” I asked.
“Of course not!” Lauren laughed through tears. “The adoption was final. You didn’t know me, and I didn’t know you.”
“Just a coincidence?” she asked, half laughing. “Or fate?”
We looked at Amy playing in the yard, unaware of the life-changing conversation happening nearby.
“Now what?” Lauren asked softly.
I didn’t know what to say. There’s no parenting book for this.
“I guess it depends,” I said. “What do you want?”
“I didn’t come looking for her,” Lauren said. “I gave up that right.”
“I know,” I told her.
“The agency sent me here because I needed work,” Lauren said, “but from the moment I met Amy, I felt… something. I thought I was good with kids.”
I reached for her hand. “Do you want Amy to know the truth?”
She shook her head fiercely. “No. She has a mom—you. You raised her and stuck by her.”
Her eyes showed love and pain.
“How about you?” I asked. “Now that you know, can you keep watching her?”
She was silent for a long moment. “Can I still be part of her life? Even if she never knows who I am?”
“I wouldn’t take that away from either of you,” I said softly.
Months later, on Amy’s birthday, Lauren surprised us with balloons, flowers, and a cake she baked. She said she had a migraine and wouldn’t come, so I was shocked to see her at the door.
She smiled through tears. “I gave her up, but maybe one day she’ll want to know me. For now, I just want to be there for her—even if it’s just watching her grow.”
When I invited her to the party, tears came to my eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For letting me be there for her in every way I can.”
I told her, “Thank you for giving me the greatest gift of my life.”
Maybe this was meant to be. Amy was thrilled to see Lauren that day.
Lauren became a quiet, steady presence in Amy’s life—loving from a distance, celebrating every milestone, never revealing the full truth but always connected by those lullabies, a thread between them across time.
That was enough.