Rebecca appeared wonderful when I recruited her via an agency. Punctual, friendly, and responsible—my six-year-old daughter Clara loved her from the start. Rebecca appeared wonderful when I recruited her via an agency. Punctual, friendly, and responsible—my six-year-old daughter Clara loved her from the start.
Rebecca had an easy way with youngsters you can’t fake. She felt like she knew Clara forever.
“Can Rebecca come over daily, Mommy?” When Rebecca was scheduled, Clara would inquire with eager eyes.
Rebecca brought a grin that filled the home and a tote bag full of books, crafts, and innovative games. I like that she never used screens.
“Kids need real connection,” she said me while helping Clara create a cardboard rocket ship. «The iPad will be there as they age.»
Rebecca’s lullabies were Clara’s favorite. Every night I worked late, Rebecca tucked her in and sang calming songs.
I had never heard anything like them—intimate, passionate, even unearthly. It was like she wrote them.
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Clara informed me over breakfast that Rebecca’s tunes eliminate terrible nightmares. “They make my chest happy.”
Her first song was heard when I came home early and stopped outside Clara’s bedroom. Her voice poured through the broken door like water—haunting, soft, and familiar despite never hearing it before.
I stood paralyzed, reluctant to speak.
Do you like Rebecca? I questioned Clara softly as I tucked her in one evening. Is she pleasant without Mommy?
Clara nodded excitedly. “She’s best! She let me break the eggs for banana bread today!”
“That’s wonderful,” I smiled. Clara’s grin faded.
“But…,” she said cautiously.
“But what, sweetheart?”
Clara looked at the ceiling and muttered, “Sometimes I feel weird when she sings.”
“How weird?” Frowning, I asked. “Do the songs scare you?”
“No, no,” she said. Not afraid. I feel like I already know them. It seems like I heard them long ago. But I forget when.”
Shivering struck me.
“Maybe from TV? Or a preschool song?”
She firmly shook her head. “No. Rebecca sings alone. plus… plus someone else I forgot.”
I scarcely slept that night. Clara’s words played in my thoughts like an unidentified music.
After Rebecca’s shift, I asked her to tea on the back porch the following day. Clara chased butterflies and bubbles in the yard.
“She talks about you all the time,” I told Rebecca. You made a big impression.”
“She’s a special little girl,” Rebecca said, lovingly eyeing Clara. “She’s smart and bright.”
After some hesitation, I asked, “Your lullabies—they’re beautiful. You wrote them?”
Rebecca’s expression changed. A shadow covered her face. She stared into her cup.
“My mother wrote them,” she whispered. “She sang them to me. Maybe I simply kept them alive.”
After a pause, she said, “It feels like a lifetime ago.”
“Do you have children?” My request was kind.
This question appeared to deflate her.
“I… I had a daughter,” she replied, her voice cracking.
A cold rushed through me.
“I lost everything when she was just a baby,” she trembled. A accident killed my parents. My spouse left after I informed him I was pregnant. I was alone. I could not provide her the right care.”
She wiped her eyes but spoke.
My automobile was my home for months. Hoping for a chance, pushed her in a stroller to interviews. No one did.”
Paused, her eyes averted.
I did the toughest thing ever. Give her up. Voluntarily. I believed it was her last chance for a bright future.
Hard heartbeat hurt.
“I still drive past the center sometimes,” she laughed shakily. “To remind myself it was right. I did it for her.”
Shaking hands, I grabbed my phone.
I said, “Rebecca, where did you place her for adoption?”
Her puzzled gaze fell on mine. I aimed my screen toward her.
“We adopted Clara from this center.”
She focused on the picture of me cradling a little infant on a yellow blanket in front of the skyscraper.
Her face fell.
“How do you know that place?”
My voice trembled. “Rebecca… Clara finds your tunes familiar. Like someone else sang them. Someone she forgot.”
Rebecca froze at me.
“What are you saying?” She muttered, but her eyes told her she knew.
Claire gets adopted. She arrived home little over a year old. That was five years ago.”
Her hands reached her lips. “No, it can’t be.”
“She was born March 15. At Lakeside Memorial.”
Rebecca paled.
“That wasn’t in the adoption paperwork—”
No, but her medical records showed it.”
I took the folder from the file cabinet after Clara mentioned the lullaby. It was only now that I understood why I needed it.
“All dates and center can be checked. Rebecca… Clara may be your daughter.”
She watched Clara gather dandelions, ignorant of the earthquake.
Did you know? Rebecca asked sternly. “Did you know me when you hired me?”
Of course not. Closed adoption. We have no idea your name.”
Half laughing, half sobbing, she exhaled. “So is this fate?”
Clara blew dandelion seeds into the breeze as we watched silently.
“What now?” Rebecca eventually murmured.
“I don’t know,” I answered. What you want?
I never intended to discover her. I had no idea. I needed work. Agency put me here.”
“I believe you,” I whispered.
I thought I was terrific with kids. Why did I feel so drawn to her?
I grabbed her hand. Do you want Clara to know?
Shaking her head, Rebecca “She has a mother. You. I could never handle that. Can I still be involved in her life? Even if she never learns why?
I answered, “You already are.
Rebecca sent balloons, wildflowers, and a baked cake to Clara’s birthday months later. She phoned in ill with a migraine that day. I was surprised to see her.
She seemed anxious, clutching the cake pan as peace offering.
“I just wanted to be here for her,” she added. Even if only as her babysitter.”
Walking aside to allow her enter, tears burnt my eyes.
“Thank you,” she muttered. “For everything.”
“No,” I said. You brought her into the world. For letting her try.”
From then on, Rebecca was Clara’s compassionate, constant companion. She celebrated every milestone from the wings, never demanding more than Clara’s trust, laughter, and love.
Clara never knew the truth. Rebecca shared something more than memories every night when she sung those lullabies—something only the two of them could comprehend.
A bond that survived time, grief, and silence.
That seemed sufficient.
