At first, it was sweet. A lullaby drifting through the nursery at night, the baby nurse’s voice soft and steady as she rocked my newborn to sleep. The melody was unfamiliar to me, but it soothed my son instantly. I would pause outside the door, listening, grateful for the peace. Until one night, I caught the words clearly, and my blood froze. It wasn’t just a lullaby. It was his song. The song my ex used to sing to me, late at night, when the world was quiet and we thought our love would last forever.
I pushed open the door, my voice shaking. “Where did you learn that?”
She looked up, startled, her humming fading. “Oh… it’s just a song I know. It helps calm him.”
But I knew better. My ex had written it. It wasn’t on the radio, wasn’t something you could find on Spotify. He sang it only to me. To hear it now, in my baby’s nursery, from the lips of a stranger, made my chest tighten with dread.
Backstory came rushing in. My ex, Luke, had been my first great love—the kind that branded your soul. He played guitar, scribbled lyrics on napkins, and sang only for me. But he was also reckless, selfish, and incapable of settling down. When he broke my heart, I thought I buried that chapter. I never told my husband about the song. I never needed to. Until the baby nurse sang it.
The build-up gnawed at me over the next days. She hummed it again, softly, as she folded blankets. Once, I even caught her whispering the lyrics while preparing a bottle. My hands shook as I finally asked, “Do you… know Luke?”
Her expression flickered—too fast to be coincidence. “No,” she said quickly. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
The climax came when I found the proof. Late one evening, as she tidied up the nursery, her phone buzzed on the dresser. The screen lit up, and there it was: Luke. A photo of him smiling, his arm slung around her. My breath hitched, the air sucked out of the room. She grabbed the phone quickly, but not before I saw.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demanded, my voice trembling.
Her face flushed, panic flashing across her features. “I… I didn’t know how. Luke is my brother. He told me to take this job. He wanted me to look out for you.”
The room tilted. My ex—my heartbreak—had sent his own sister into my home, into my child’s nursery, without telling me. “Why?” I asked, my voice breaking.
Tears welled in her eyes. “He wanted to make sure you were okay. He still cares, even if he can’t say it himself.”
Resolution didn’t come easily. I fired her the next day—not because she was unkind, but because my home no longer felt safe. Every note of that song felt like an intrusion, a ghost slipping into the present where it didn’t belong. I sat in the nursery rocking my baby myself, humming a different tune, determined to write new memories that belonged only to us.
Now, whenever I hear a lullaby, I don’t think of peace. I think of a secret song carrying the weight of a past I thought I buried, brought back into my life by someone who never should have sung it.
Final Thought
The baby nurse’s song wasn’t just a lullaby—it was a reminder that the past has claws. Some melodies don’t die; they echo, uninvited, through the walls of the present. And sometimes love doesn’t just haunt you in memories—it sends its voice straight into your child’s crib.
