The nursery smelled faintly of lavender and money. Baby Oliver, only three weeks old, lay in his gold-trimmed crib, his tiny face flushed and swollen from crying. His small body twisted against the pristine white sheets, as if he were fighting something unseen.
Naomi lifted him carefully, pulling him close.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”
But the crying only intensified. Naomi had been a nanny for years before becoming a housekeeper. She knew hunger cries, discomfort, exhaustion.
This was pain.
She remembered the Caldwells bringing Oliver home just two weeks earlier. Since then, three nannies had quit. Each called the baby “impossible,” blaming severe colic.
Desperate, the family had asked Naomi to take on childcare duties for a modest raise—money she needed to send to her ailing father in rural Kentucky.
The pediatrician had visited twice. An expensive specialist who barely examined the child.
“Some infants just cry,” he’d said. “Colic. It passes.”
Naomi didn’t believe that anymore.
She paced the room, rocking Oliver, scanning every corner. The nursery was flawless—organic linens, temperature-controlled air, top-of-the-line monitors.