Until the one day she met Liam.
I had asked her to stay longer because of work. When I got home, she was halfway out the door, clearly shaken.
“I’m not the right fit,” she said, her voice tight. “Please don’t contact me again.”
That same night, the agency called.
She had quit.
No reason given.
That’s when it stopped feeling like coincidence.
When the third nanny left—again, right after meeting my husband—I knew something was wrong.
That night, my daughter said something I couldn’t ignore.
“Daddy told her you’re too tired,” Annabel said softly as I tucked her in. “He said you don’t understand your job.”
I froze.
My five-year-old didn’t make things like that up.
The next morning, I sat in the kitchen, staring at nothing, asking myself one question:
