The moment should have been pure, one of those quiet, glowing memories you lock away forever. I had just given birth to my daughter, still weak and stitched from labor, when the night-shift nurse came in. She was young, kind-faced, humming softly as she checked the monitors. Then she lifted my baby, rocked her gently, and began to sing. At first, I smiled, touched by the tenderness. But then the words slipped from her lips—words that made my blood run cold. Because the lullaby she sang wasn’t just any lullaby. It was his lullaby. The one only my husband ever sang.
I froze. My husband, James, had this silly little tune he made up years ago, long before we had children. It was a mix of nonsense words and a melody he strummed once on his old guitar. It wasn’t a real song—you couldn’t find it anywhere. It was ours. He sang it to me when I was sick, hummed it in the car on road trips, whispered it against my neck when he thought no one was listening. Nobody else knew it. Nobody.
And here was this nurse, crooning it word for word, rocking my newborn as if it belonged to her too.
“Where… where did you learn that?” I asked, my voice thin, shaky.
She blinked, startled, but kept her tone light. “Oh, just something I’ve heard before.”
My throat tightened. “He taught you that, didn’t he? James.”
Her eyes flickered—just for a second, but it was enough. She knew him.
The room felt smaller, air thick. My heart thudded painfully against my chest. I wanted to scream, to snatch my daughter back, but my body was still weak, tethered to monitors and IVs. All I could do was watch as this stranger—this woman—held my child and sang the song that was supposed to belong only to us.
“Give her back,” I whispered.
The nurse hesitated, then gently placed my daughter in the bassinet, adjusting the blanket as if nothing was wrong. But her hands shook. “You should rest,” she said quickly. “You’ve been through a lot.” And then she left, the lullaby echoing in my ears like a curse.
The rest of the night was a blur of panic. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, my baby’s soft breaths filling the silence. Questions clawed at me. Who was she to him? How long had they known each other? Why would he share something so intimate, so secret, with someone else?
By morning, I was seething. When James arrived, carrying coffee and flowers, I barely looked at him. He kissed my forehead, murmured, “How are my girls?” as if nothing had shattered.
I waited until the nurse’s shift ended before I spoke. My voice shook with fury. “Who is she, James? The night nurse. She knows your song.”
His smile faltered. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t lie to me.” My hands clenched the blanket. “She sang it. Word for word. The song you made up. The one only you and I knew. How does she know it?”
He opened his mouth, closed it. For the first time in our marriage, he had no quick excuse, no easy lie. His silence was louder than any confession.
Tears blurred my vision. “How long?”
He sat down heavily, burying his face in his hands. “It was before you got pregnant,” he muttered. “It didn’t mean anything.”
“Didn’t mean anything?” I spat. “You gave her our song. The most intimate piece of us, and you gave it away like it was nothing.”
He reached for me, but I pulled back. “It’s over, James. Even if I forgave you, that song will never be ours again. You ruined it.”
For the rest of my hospital stay, I refused to let any nurse near my daughter unless I was awake. I couldn’t look at James without feeling sick. The lullaby haunted me, twisting into something sharp and ugly.
Weeks later, at home, I tried to sing it to my daughter. But the words caught in my throat, bitter now. I stopped mid-verse, tears soaking her blanket. I realized then that betrayal isn’t always about what’s taken—it’s about what’s stolen and can never be returned.
Final Thought
Sometimes it’s not the lies that destroy you. It’s the little truths that slip out when someone forgets they’re supposed to be secrets. For me, it was a song. A lullaby that should have belonged only to us. But the moment it left his lips for another, it became a weapon. Now, when I rock my daughter, I hum silence instead. Silence he can’t taint.
