At first, it was just a sound in the background. Soft, almost soothing, the kind of hum that could lull anyone to sleep. The baby nurse we hired, Marisol, would walk around the nursery late at night with my newborn in her arms, humming the same little tune over and over. At first, I was grateful—anything that made my colicky son rest felt like a miracle. But then one night, as I stood in the hallway listening, the melody struck me like a bolt of lightning. My heart clenched. I knew that song. I knew it in a way that made my stomach twist. Because it wasn’t just any lullaby—it was a song my husband had written years ago, for me.
Back when we were dating, he used to strum his guitar and make up little songs to make me laugh. There was one he sang only to me, a silly, sweet tune about “the girl with stars in her hair,” a private melody he swore no one else would ever hear. I hadn’t thought about it in years, but hearing it float through the nursery walls sent chills down my spine. Why was she humming it? How did she even know it?
The backstory of hiring Marisol had seemed harmless enough. I was drowning in exhaustion after giving birth. Sleepless nights, endless feedings, the fog that makes you forget your own name. My husband, Derek, suggested we hire help—a professional night nurse who could give me a break. “She comes highly recommended,” he said, showing me her glowing reviews. And she was good, I couldn’t deny it. She knew how to swaddle him perfectly, how to calm his cries, how to rock him into peace. But maybe she knew too much.
The buildup of unease grew little by little. The way Marisol smiled at Derek when he entered the room, her eyes holding his for just a second too long. The way she sometimes hummed that tune louder when he was nearby, as if daring him to notice. I asked her once, casually, “Where’d you learn that song?” She looked startled, then shrugged. “Just something I picked up,” she said, too quickly, before changing the subject.
But the unease festered. Late one night, I couldn’t resist. I crept toward the nursery, heart pounding, and peeked through the crack in the door. Marisol was rocking my baby, humming the tune with a smile. Derek was standing there too, leaning against the doorframe, his face soft with a look I hadn’t seen in a long time. The kind of look meant for someone you love. My stomach dropped.
The climax came the next morning, when I finally confronted him. My hands shook as I held my coffee mug, staring at him across the kitchen island. “Why does she know your song?” I demanded. He blinked, feigning confusion. “What song?”
“Don’t play dumb, Derek,” I snapped, my voice breaking. “The one you wrote for me. The one you promised was ours. She hums it every night. How does she know it?”
He paled, looking down at the counter. The silence stretched so long I thought I might scream. Finally, he whispered, “I didn’t think you’d recognize it.”
My heart stopped. “So it’s true? You taught her?”
He shook his head slowly. “Not exactly.” And then the truth spilled out like poison. He had known Marisol long before we hired her. Years ago, before we ever met, she wasn’t just some random nurse—she was someone he had dated briefly, someone he had once played that same song for. He swore it was nothing serious, that he hadn’t realized she was the same Marisol when she applied for the job. “It was a coincidence,” he insisted, his voice trembling.
But it didn’t feel like coincidence. It felt like betrayal wrapped in lullabies.
The resolution didn’t come quickly. That night, I sat in the nursery rocking my baby myself, refusing to let Marisol near him. My son’s tiny breaths steadied against my chest as I whispered my own lullaby, reclaiming what was mine. The song had once been a symbol of love, but now it was tainted, shared with someone who had no right to it.
We let Marisol go the next day. Derek tried to explain, tried to convince me it didn’t mean anything, but the damage was already carved into me. Every time I heard silence where her humming used to be, I felt both relief and rage. Relief because she was gone. Rage because the one thing I thought was mine alone had been shared with another woman long before me.
Sometimes betrayal doesn’t come in screams or slammed doors. Sometimes it comes quietly, carried in the soft hum of a song you thought was yours.
Final Thought
Trust doesn’t just break in grand explosions—it crumbles in the small, unspoken ways. Hearing that tune in my baby’s nursery reminded me that love is fragile, and sometimes the things you treasure most are the ones someone else has already stolen. I can forgive many things, but I can’t forgive being rewritten in my own story.
