We hired a nanny, a quiet, 24-year-old girl named Sabine. She showed up for the interview wearing a plain navy dress and speaking so softly I had to lean in to catch her words. She was polite, kind, and seemed to adore children. My husband, Ronan, and I had been desperate to find someone reliable. Between my new work project and his business trips, we were stretched thin. Sabine seemed like an answer to a prayer.
Our son, Dorian, 7, was instantly smitten. He’d lost his grandma the previous year, and since then, he’d been so clingy with me it was breaking my heart. But the moment Sabine came into our lives, he started laughing again. They’d build pillow forts, read books, and make cookies. He even asked her to tuck him in some nights, which left me with mixed feelings—relief, but also a sting of jealousy.
A month went by, and I noticed how Dorian cried every time Sabine left, clutching her hand and begging her to stay. It was sweet, but also unsettling. I chalked it up to how much he missed having a maternal figure around during the day. I kept telling myself I was overthinking. Sabine never overstepped boundaries, always kept me updated, and followed our routines perfectly.
Then yesterday, I was looking for his asthma inhaler in Sabine’s bag—she kept it there during outings—and found a laminated photo of Dorian tucked inside a small zippered pocket. I thought it was odd, but figured maybe she carried it for emergencies. Until I turned it over and saw two words written in delicate cursive on the back: “MY BOY.”