I’m a nanny for a family with two kids—a five-year-old boy and a two-year-old girl. The parents are pretty hands-off and leave me with the kids for 10+ hours a day, even on weekends. I love the kids, but it’s exhausting, and they don’t pay me nearly enough.
One day, the mom came home early while the little girl was napping, and the boy and I were playing with Legos. She asked him if he liked having me around, and he nodded, smiling. Then she asked, “If you could wish for anything in the world, what would it be?”
Without missing a beat, he said, “I wish she was my mom.”
The mom froze, and I didn’t know what to say. Then she turned to me and said , “Can I talk to you in the kitchen for a moment?”
I nodded, trying to keep my expression neutral even though my heart was racing. I told the boy to keep building his Lego masterpiece and that I’d be back soon. As I followed her into the kitchen, my mind spun with possible outcomes. Was she angry? Hurt? Was she going to fire me?
When we reached the kitchen, she leaned against the counter, her arms crossed tightly. For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Her face was blank, but her eyes… her eyes told a different story. They were full of something I couldn’t quite place—sadness, maybe? Guilt? Exhaustion?
Finally, she exhaled and said, “I had no idea he felt that way.”
I didn’t know how to respond. “He’s a sweet boy,” I offered cautiously. “Kids say all kinds of things.”
She gave a hollow laugh. “Yeah, but kids don’t lie about stuff like that. At least not at his age.”
There was a long silence. I could feel the weight of her words hanging in the air between us. I wanted to say something comforting, but I also didn’t want to overstep. So I waited.
“I’ve been so caught up in work and everything else,” she finally admitted, her voice cracking just a little. “I thought hiring a nanny would make things easier for them. For all of us. But maybe I’ve just… checked out. Maybe I’m failing them.”
Her vulnerability caught me off guard. In the time I’d worked for them, she’d always seemed so put-together, so focused. But now, standing in the kitchen with her, I could see the cracks in the facade.
“You’re not failing them,” I said gently. “Being a parent is hard. And they love you—both of them do. They talk about you all the time.”
She looked up at me, her eyes searching mine for some kind of reassurance. “Do they? Really?”
I nodded. “They do. But… maybe they just need more of you. More of your time.”
She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “I don’t even know where to start. I work so much, and by the time I get home, I’m too tired to be present. It’s like I’m just… there. And now, hearing that he wishes you were his mom—” Her voice broke, and she quickly wiped at her eyes.
I wanted to reach out and comfort her, but I wasn’t sure if it was my place. So instead, I said, “It’s not about replacing you. I think he just sees me as someone who’s here all the time, someone who plays with him and listens to him. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t need you. Kids need their parents more than anything.”
She nodded slowly, her expression softening. “You’re right. I just… I don’t want to miss this. These years. I don’t want to look back and realize I wasn’t there for them when it mattered.”
I could see she was struggling, and my heart went out to her. “Maybe it’s not about doing everything perfectly,” I said. “Maybe it’s just about being there. Showing up, even when it’s messy.”
She smiled faintly, her eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “You’re wise beyond your years, you know that?”
I shrugged, feeling a little awkward. “I’ve spent a lot of time with kids. They teach you a lot.”
We stood there for a moment, the tension in the room finally easing. Then she said, “I think I need to make some changes. For them. And for me.”
I smiled. “That sounds like a good plan.”
She nodded, as if solidifying her resolve. “Thank you. For everything. I mean it.”
Over the next few weeks, I started to notice small changes. She began coming home earlier, even if it meant bringing work with her. She’d sit on the floor with the kids and build Legos or read stories. On weekends, she started planning family outings—trips to the park, movie nights, baking cookies together. The kids were ecstatic, and I could see the difference it made in them. They were happier, more relaxed. And so was she.
One day, as I was getting ready to leave, the little boy hugged me tightly and said, “I’m glad you’re here. But I’m also glad Mommy is here more now.”
His words warmed my heart in a way I couldn’t explain. “Me too, buddy,” I said, ruffling his hair.
A few months later, the mom sat me down again. This time, her demeanor was lighter, more confident. “I’ve been thinking a lot about everything,” she said. “And I realized how much we’ve come to rely on you. You’ve been more than just a nanny to us—you’ve been a part of our family. But I think it’s time for me to step up even more. I want to be the mom they need.”
I smiled, feeling a bittersweet pang in my chest. “They’re lucky to have you.”
“And we’re lucky to have you,” she added. “I was hoping you’d still want to be part of their lives, even if it’s not in the same capacity. Maybe you could babysit occasionally? Or just come by for visits?”
I felt a lump form in my throat. “I’d love that.”
As time went on, I did exactly that. I transitioned out of my role as their full-time nanny, but I stayed in their lives. I watched as the mom blossomed into someone more present, more engaged. She wasn’t perfect—no one is—but she was trying, and that made all the difference.
The boy stopped wishing for me to be his mom because he had the one he needed all along. And as for the little girl, she grew into a spirited, happy child, always eager to show off her latest creations or tell me about her adventures with her family.
Looking back, I realized that moment in the kitchen had been a turning point—not just for the mom, but for all of us. It reminded me that small actions can create ripples, that showing up and caring can change lives in ways we don’t always expect.
So to anyone out there who feels like they’re falling short, who’s struggling to find balance or wondering if they’re enough: you are. And it’s never too late to try.
If this story touched you, please share it with someone who might need to hear it. And if you have your own moments of connection or change, I’d love to hear them—feel free to share them in the comments. Let’s remind each other that we’re all in this together. ❤️
