When I held the twins, they slept and ate. Every afternoon at four, Dr. Hale arrived. By five, the screaming returned.
Margaret whispered to me one day, “This isn’t normal. Every time that woman leaves, it gets worse.”
Then, during a stormy evening, Dr. Hale dropped something—a tiny glass vial in the driveway.
I retrieved it. Faint writing remained.
Ephedrine / Digoxin – 0.5 mg
I searched it.
My stomach turned.
She wasn’t treating them. She was poisoning them—inducing symptoms to remain indispensable.
I ran to Jonathan.
“She’s hurting them on purpose,” I said, shaking. “Please—save your daughters.”
Before lab results came back, Dr. Hale returned, frantic. When confronted, her mask fell.
“You can’t stop treatment,” she screamed. “They’ll die without me!”
She grabbed a heavy paperweight.
I tackled her.
We crashed to the floor. She fought viciously, but I held on until police arrived.
At the hospital, real doctors took over.
“They’ll survive,” the chief physician said. “Another week, and they wouldn’t have.”
Dr. Hale was arrested.
The nursery is quiet now—full of laughter instead of pain.
Sophie and Amelia are healthy, chubby, alive.
I’m no longer the maid.
I’m the nanny.