When I hired Rebecca through an agency, she seemed perfect. Punctual, warm, responsible—my six-year-old daughter, Clara, adored her from day one.
Rebecca had this effortless way with kids that you can’t fake. It felt like she had known Clara her whole life.
“Mommy, can Rebecca come over every day?” Clara would ask, eyes glowing with anticipation whenever Rebecca was on the schedule.
Rebecca arrived with a smile that brightened the house and a tote bag brimming with books, crafts, and clever little games. She never resorted to screens, something I truly appreciated.
“Kids need real connection,” she once told me while helping Clara build a cardboard rocket ship. “The iPad will be there when they’re older.”
Clara’s favorite thing about Rebecca, though, was her lullabies. Every night I had to work late, Rebecca tucked her in and sang soft, soothing melodies.
They were like nothing I’d heard before—intimate, emotional, almost otherworldly. It was like she’d composed them herself.
“Rebecca’s songs make the bad dreams go away,” Clara told me one morning over cereal. “They make my chest feel happy.”
The first time I heard her sing, I had come home early and paused outside Clara’s bedroom. Her voice flowed through the cracked door like water—haunting, gentle, deeply familiar even though I’d never heard it before.
I stood there frozen, unwilling to interrupt.
One evening, as I was tucking Clara in myself, I asked gently, “Do you like Rebecca? Is she nice when Mommy’s not here?”
Clara nodded eagerly. “She’s the best! We made banana bread today, and she let me crack the eggs!”
“That’s wonderful,” I said with a smile. But then Clara’s smile faltered.
“But…” she began hesitantly.
“But what, sweetheart?”
Clara glanced at the ceiling, then whispered, “Sometimes I feel weird when she sings.”
“Weird how?” I asked, frowning. “Do the songs make you feel scared?”
“No, no,” she insisted. “Not scared. Just… like I know them already. Like I’ve heard them a long, long time ago. But I don’t remember when.”
A cold shiver crept up my spine.
“Maybe they’re from TV? Or a song from preschool?”
She shook her head firmly. “No. Only Rebecca sings them. And… and someone else I can’t remember.”
That night I barely slept. Clara’s words looped in my head like a melody I couldn’t place.
The next day, after Rebecca’s shift, I invited her to stay for tea on the back porch. Clara played in the yard, chasing bubbles and butterflies.
“She talks about you all the time,” I told Rebecca. “You’ve made quite an impression.”
“She’s a special little girl,” Rebecca replied, her eyes following Clara with obvious affection. “She’s smart and full of light.”
I hesitated, then finally asked, “Your lullabies—they’re beautiful. Did you write them?”
Rebecca’s face shifted. A shadow passed over her features. She looked down into her cup.
“My mother wrote them,” she said softly. “She used to sing them to me. I guess I just… kept them alive.”
She was quiet for a long moment, then added, “It feels like a lifetime ago.”
“Do you have children of your own?” I asked gently.
The question seemed to knock the air out of her.
“I… I had a daughter,” she said, voice breaking on the word had.
A chill ran through me.
“I lost everything when she was just a baby,” she said, voice trembling. “My parents died in a crash. My husband walked out when I told him I was pregnant. I had no one. I couldn’t care for her the way she deserved.”
She wiped her eyes but kept talking.
“I lived out of my car for months. Brought her to interviews in a stroller, hoping someone would give me a chance. No one did.”
She paused, her eyes distant.
“So, I did the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I gave her up. Voluntarily. I thought… it was the only way she might have a real future.”
My heart beat so hard it hurt.
“I still drive past the center sometimes,” she said, forcing a shaky laugh. “Just to remind myself it was the right thing. That I did it for her.”
I reached for my phone with trembling fingers.
“Rebecca,” I said slowly, “where did you place her for adoption?”
She looked at me, confused. I turned my screen toward her.
“This is the center we adopted Clara from.”
Her eyes locked on the photo—me standing in front of the building, holding a tiny baby in a yellow blanket.
Her expression crumbled.
“Wait—how do you know that place?”
My voice shook. “Rebecca… Clara says your songs feel familiar. Like someone else used to sing them. Someone she can’t remember.”
Rebecca stared at me, frozen.
“What are you saying?” she whispered, though the look in her eyes said she already knew.
“Clara is adopted. We brought her home when she was just over a year old. That was five years ago.”
Her hands flew to her mouth. “No… no, it can’t be.”
“She was born March 15th. At Lakeside Memorial.”
Rebecca’s face went pale.
“That wasn’t in the adoption paperwork—”
“No, but it was in her medical records.”
I pulled out the folder I’d grabbed from the filing cabinet after Clara’s comment about the lullabies. I hadn’t known why I needed it—until now.
“We can check everything… the dates, the center. But Rebecca… Clara might be your daughter.”
She stared at Clara, who was now picking dandelions, unaware of the earthquake beneath her feet.
“Did you know?” Rebecca asked, voice sharp. “Did you know who I was when you hired me?”
“Of course not. The adoption was closed. We didn’t even know your name.”
She let out a breath that was half laugh, half sob. “So this is just… fate?”
We sat in silence, watching Clara blow dandelion seeds into the wind.
“What now?” Rebecca finally whispered.
“I don’t know,” I said. “What do you want?”
“I never meant to find her. I didn’t even know. I just needed a job. The agency assigned me here.”
“I believe you,” I said softly.
“I just thought I was good with kids. I didn’t know why I felt such a pull toward her.”
I reached for her hand. “Do you want Clara to know?”
Rebecca shook her head. “She already has a mother. You. I could never take that away. But… can I still be part of her life? Even if she never knows why?”
“You already are,” I said.
Months later, on Clara’s birthday, Rebecca showed up with balloons, wildflowers, and a homemade cake. She had called in sick that day, claiming a migraine. I didn’t expect to see her.
She looked nervous, holding the cake tin like a peace offering.
“I just wanted to be here for her,” she said. “Even if it’s only as her babysitter.”
Tears burned my eyes as I stepped aside and let her in.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything.”
“No,” I replied. “Thank you—for bringing her into the world. For giving her a chance.”
From that day on, Rebecca remained a gentle, steady presence in Clara’s life. She celebrated every milestone from the wings, never claiming more than what Clara already offered her freely: trust, laughter, and love.
She never told Clara the truth. But every night, when Rebecca sang those lullabies, she gave her something deeper than memory—something only the two of them could ever truly understand.
A connection that defied time, loss, and the silence in between.
And somehow… that was enough.
