I went back to work when my youngest, Nancy, turned two.
Not because I had to—but because I wanted more.
More stability. More independence. A life where my daughters could see me stand on my own feet.
Liam said he supported me.
He said all the right things. That he was proud. That we were a team. That he’d help however he could.
And I believed him.
So I hired a nanny.
The first one was Stacy.
She was warm, calm, the kind of woman children trust instantly. Within a day, Annabel was following her around the house, and Nancy wouldn’t let go of her hand.
For three days, everything felt… right.
Then Liam came home early from a business trip.
That night, I walked in and found Stacy already dressed to leave, her bag in her hand.
She wouldn’t look at me.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I can’t continue working here.”
No explanation.
No warning.
Just gone.
I told myself it was bad luck.
The agency sent another nanny—Mrs. Nevin. Older, composed, reliable. She worked a full week without issues.
