The Things She Shouldn’t Know

I told myself I was overthinking it. Margaret had probably guessed the baby in the photo was me. The picture was on my shelf. It was old. It was personal. Maybe she had simply connected the dots. So I let it go. Or at least I tried to. Over the next few weeks, Margaret became part of our routine. She arrived every morning at eight. She washed her hands before touching Lily. She checked the bottle temperature against her wrist. She folded the burp cloths into perfect squares. Sometimes, when I came home, there was soup on the stove or laundry drying by the window. “You don’t have to do all this,” I told her one afternoon. Margaret smiled as she placed a tiny sock beside its match. “I know.” That answer should have comforted me. Instead, it made something tighten in my chest. She started bringing small gifts for Lily. A knitted hat. A soft blanket. A little stuffed rabbit with one ear slightly bent. “This looks old,” I said, turning the rabbit over in my hands. “It belonged to my niece,” Margaret replied. Her voice was steady, but she would not look at me. I believed her because I wanted to. Kindness is easier to accept when you do not question where it comes from. And I needed kindness. My adoptive mother had died three years earlier. She was the only mother I had ever known. She was the woman who stayed up when I was sick, taught me how to drive, and cried harder than I did on my wedding day. She never made me feel adopted. Not once. But she did tell me one story again and again. When I came to her, I had two things. A yellow blanket. And a lullaby. She did not know where the song came from. The caseworker had hummed it once and written down a few words because, apparently, I stopped crying whenever someone sang it. My mother sang that lullaby to me throughout my childhood. Years later, I sang it to Lily. I never sang it around Margaret. At least, I did not think I had. Then one Thursday evening, my meeting ended early. I came home almost an hour before Margaret expected me. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. I set my bag down and walked toward the nursery. That was when I heard humming. A low, gentle melody. My entire body stopped. It was not a common nursery song. It was not something from the radio. It was my lullaby. The one my mother said had come with me. I stood in the hallway, listening as Margaret sang the exact words. Not similar words. The exact ones. I pushed open the nursery door. Margaret turned toward me with Lily asleep against her chest. “How do you know that song?” I asked. Her face changed. The warmth disappeared. So did the calm. For several seconds, she said nothing. Then Margaret looked down at my daughter and whispered, “I sang it to you first.”