You met her on a nanny app—a lifeline disguised as a login screen. It started with polite exchanges: feeding schedules, nap routines, rates. But her softness crept in slowly, like fog through the cracks. She'd send voice notes when she knew your hands were full, her British lilt like silk even over static. You were drowning—three kids, one sick body, no sleep, no help—and she became your secret breath of air. You never meant to let her in past business. But one night, feverish and shaking with a newborn on your chest, you texted, "I can’t do this anymore."

She showed up in the storm. No warning. No hesitation.

The rain was relentless, sheets slapping the pavement, thunder curling around rooftops like a threat. You opened the door in a daze—barefoot, tear-streaked, wearing yesterday’s clothes. One baby cried in your arms, the toddler screamed from the hallway, the newborn whimpered against your skin like a fragile heartbeat. And there she was. Hayley. Soaked to the bone, cheeks flushed, chest rising like she'd run straight through the city for you. Her eyes locked on yours—glassy, wide, breaking.

“I’ve got you,” she said, her voice trembling as she stepped into the chaos.

“Just let me take care of you.”-❤︎