After our son turned two, we hired a babysitter—kind, patient, and somehow instantly in tune with him. What unsettled me was how quickly he got attached. He’d reach for her, settle faster with her than with me. I chalked it up to her warmth, but something gnawed at me. One afternoon, I came home early and overheard her on the phone. She said, “She doesn’t even know I used the late grandma’s voice to bond with the kid.” I froze. My heart raced. I stormed in, shaking, demanding an explanation. She looked terrified, caught, and then told me everything.
She’d found an old CD tucked away—my mom, my son’s late grandma, singing a lullaby to him as a baby. I’d buried that memory after she passed. It was too raw, too painful. I hadn’t listened to it since the funeral. But the nanny had stumbled across it while tidying, and when she played it, my son instantly calmed. He recognized the voice. She kept using it to soothe him, afraid to admit she’d gone through my things. I was furious. That CD was sacred. It wasn’t hers to use. I felt violated, exposed, and deeply hurt.
I couldn’t believe she’d gone through my belongings. That lullaby was a private grief, a piece of my heart I hadn’t shared. I lashed out, accusing her of crossing boundaries. She apologized, said she only wanted to help. Her voice trembled. She hadn’t meant harm. She’d seen my son struggling and reached for comfort. I didn’t know what to say. My emotions tangled—anger, sorrow, confusion. I sent her home early and sat with the CD in my hands, unsure whether to listen or throw it away. That night, I couldn’t sleep. My son slept soundly, soothed by a ghost.
The next morning, I watched him play. He was happy, settled. I asked him about the song. He smiled and said, “Grandma sings to me.” Tears welled up. I hadn’t realized how much he remembered her. She’d died when he was just a baby, but somehow, her voice stayed with him. I played the CD myself. Her voice filled the room—soft, loving, familiar. I broke down. It was like she was there again, holding us both. I understood then: the nanny hadn’t stolen anything. She’d uncovered something I’d buried, something my son still needed.
I called the nanny back. We talked. I told her I was hurt, but I also thanked her. She’d helped my son in a way I hadn’t been able to. She’d brought my mom back into our lives, even if just through a song. We agreed on boundaries—no more going through personal items—but I didn’t fire her. I couldn’t. She’d shown me something profound: that love doesn’t end with death. It lingers, in lullabies and memories, in the way a child calms when he hears a voice he once knew. My mom was still here, in her own way.
Now, when I hear that lullaby, I don’t flinch. I let it play. My son curls into my lap, eyes heavy, heart light. The pain hasn’t vanished, but it’s softened. I’m learning to share my grief, to let it live beside joy. The nanny still sings to him sometimes, but now I do too. We’re raising him together—with patience, with care, and with a voice that once sang to me. Maybe my mom really is still helping me raise him. Not just through memory, but through music, through love, through the quiet ways she still shows up.
