The first time she said it, I thought I’d misheard. My body was aching from labor, stitched and swollen, but I shuffled down the hallway when I heard the faint lull of a nursery rhyme. I stopped at the doorway. She was rocking him in her arms, humming softly, the glow of the nightlight catching the strands of her dark hair. And then I heard it—clear as a bell. “Go to sleep, little one. Ours loves you so much.” Ours. My stomach tightened like a fist.
We had hired her three weeks before my due date. Her name was Marissa, a baby nurse recommended by one of my coworkers. She had glowing references, a calm presence, and the kind of quiet confidence that makes you feel safe handing over your fragile newborn. When she arrived at the hospital the day we brought my son home, she moved through the nursery like she’d lived there her whole life—arranging bottles, folding blankets, adjusting the monitor. I was grateful. Exhausted, hormonal, terrified, I clung to her efficiency like a lifeline. My husband, Ryan, kept saying, “She’s a godsend.”
And she was. At first. She let me sleep. She taught me how to swaddle tighter. She whispered little tips that made me feel less like a fumbling stranger in my own motherhood. I wanted to trust her. I wanted to need her.
But then came that word. Ours.
At first, I told myself it was a slip. Maybe she meant to say “yours.” Maybe I was paranoid from lack of sleep. But the next night, when I hovered outside the nursery door again, I heard it once more. “Shh, baby boy. Ours is here. Ours will always take care of you.”
My chest tightened. My hands started to shake. I walked in, trying to keep my voice calm. “Did you just say ‘ours’?”
She froze. Her arms tightened around my son almost protectively. Then she smiled, too quickly. “Oh—you heard that? It’s just a silly habit. I always call babies ‘ours’ when I care for them. Like…we all share love for them, right?”
I wanted to believe her. But the way she said it, the way her eyes lingered on him like he belonged to her too, it made something primal in me bristle.
The days blurred together—feedings, diaper changes, fragments of sleep. And yet, I couldn’t unhear that word. It began to gnaw at me. Every time she held him, I felt my chest constrict. Every time she called him “ours,” even if followed by a quick correction—“yours, sorry”—it pierced me. I started watching her more closely. The way she stroked his hair longer than necessary. The way she whispered to him when she thought I wasn’t listening.
Ryan told me I was being oversensitive. “You’re exhausted, Em. You’re hormonal. She’s just trying to help.” But I noticed how often he let her take over. How quickly he handed the baby to her when he cried, how he smiled when she soothed him faster than I could. I wanted to scream: He’s my baby. Mine.
One afternoon, I came into the living room to find her sprawled on the couch, my son sleeping on her chest. His tiny fist clutched the fabric of her shirt like she was his mother. She didn’t even notice me at first, her eyes closed, her lips murmuring, “Ours loves you. Ours always loves you.”
Something inside me snapped. “Give him to me,” I said. My voice was low, shaking. She startled awake, clutching him tighter.
“Oh—he just fell asleep,” she said quickly. “It’s easier if I—”
“Now,” I cut her off. I reached out, my hands trembling, but she hesitated before finally, slowly, handing him over. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes followed every movement as I held him against my chest.
That night I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake listening to the creaks of the house, every sound magnified by paranoia. I finally slipped out of bed and walked down the hall, careful not to wake Ryan. I pushed open the nursery door just a crack. And there she was again, rocking him, whispering. Only this time, her voice was firmer, almost like a promise. “Mommy doesn’t understand yet, but ours will always be together. Always.”
My breath caught. The air felt too thin. She wasn’t saying “ours” like a habit. She meant it.
The next morning, I told Ryan we needed to let her go. His eyes widened. “What? Emily, she’s been incredible. You can finally sleep. You’re not even healed yet.”
“She’s calling him hers,” I snapped. “She keeps saying he’s ours. Like we share him. It’s not normal.”
Ryan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re spiraling. Please don’t make this harder than it is.”
But I wasn’t imagining it. I knew what I heard.
Two nights later, I found proof. I was folding laundry when I noticed a small notebook half-hidden under the glider in the nursery. I picked it up. Inside were pages filled with neat, looping handwriting. At first, I thought it was just notes—feeding schedules, sleep patterns. But then I turned the page.
“My sweet boy,” it read. “Our bond grows stronger every day. You know I’m yours, and you’re mine. She doesn’t understand, but she will. She has to. One day, you’ll know the truth—we belong to each other.”
My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped the book. My stomach lurched. I wanted to vomit.
I confronted her the next morning. She was buttoning up his tiny onesie when I stormed in, notebook in hand. “What the hell is this?” I demanded.
Her face drained of color. “Where did you—”
“Don’t play games with me,” I snapped. “What is this supposed to mean? ‘Ours will always be together’? You’re writing to my son like he’s yours.”
Her eyes filled with tears, but her voice stayed calm, almost soothing. “You don’t understand. We share him now. You’re too tired, too overwhelmed. He needs both of us. That’s why he smiles more with me, why he sleeps better with me. He knows.”
“He’s my child!” I screamed. The sound startled even me. My son whimpered, sensing the tension. I pulled him into my arms, shielding him from her. “You are done here. Get out. Now.”
She begged. She cried. She clutched at the notebook, insisting it was innocent, just her way of journaling. But I saw the hunger in her eyes, the way she lingered on him even as she packed her things.
Ryan was furious with me at first. “You fired the only person who’s been helping us!” he shouted. But when I showed him the notebook, the color drained from his face too. He didn’t argue after that.
It’s been weeks since she left, but I still hear her voice in my head sometimes when I rock him to sleep. Ours. The word makes my skin crawl now. I double-check the locks every night. I’ve installed cameras. And when I hold my son, I whisper fiercely into his tiny ear, “You’re mine. Only mine.”
Final Thought
Exhaustion makes you vulnerable. Trust makes you blind. I thought I was letting someone help me, but instead, I let her blur the line between caretaker and mother. The day she called him “ours,” I realized something chilling: not everyone who wants to hold your baby wants to give him back.
