I was a changed man.
Pregnancy had been challenging for my wife.
Our son was delivered via C-section.
This required 8 weeks of recovery.
My company had generously offered me a 6 week paid paternity leave (they joked that the I.T.
Not to say that my wife was not involved.
At least until she had received full medical clearance.
I assured her truthfully that I would do extensive research and find just the right person for the job.
Finding the right person was not as easy as I thought.
With my strict criteria, this was going to be quite the undertaking.
There are so many sick fucks out there.
I read story after story of nannies killing their charges.
One in particular stuck in my mind.
I searched diligently, checking references and conducting interviews until I finally found her.
Our perfect nanny, Claire.
She was a tall, gaunt woman of 6.
Though she spoke softly, there was an urgency to every sentence that escaped her lips.
Her lazy eye furiously scanned every room she entered.
My wife took an instant disliking to her as I knew she would.
I assured her that she met my impossibly strict criteria and was perfect for the job.
This would be our nanny whether she liked it or not.
I could feel her relax into my arms as she whispered her agreement.
She moved in the weekend before I returned to work.
My son had awoken one evening, short of breath.
By the time my wife got to his room, he had recovered.
Much to my dismay she now insisted that he be monitored at all times.
I told her paranoia was getting the better of her, but she wouldnt budge.
After several weeks without incident, it seemed the episode was a fluke.
While out getting groceries, I got the call from Claire.
My son had stopped breathing.
The paramedics arrived immediately and continued CPR on him.
My wife was inconsolable.
At the hospital she demanded that they run every test possible on him.
She became hysterical while talking to the doctor, so much so that she was risking being hospitalized herself.
I assured her that he was in good hands.
We were fortunate to be located in close proximity to one of the countrys top pediatric hospitals.
My son was monitored for 24 hours and appeared to have made a full recovery.
The tests showed no indications for medical concern.
My wife was adamant that he stay longer, that more tests be run.
When I tried to calm her, she lashed out.
You dont even care, she said with fury in her eyes.
You didnt even want him.
The following weeks were trying on our family.
My wife was riddled with guilt over what had happened on her watch.
Rather quickly things began to unravel.
Another urgent call from Claire while I was out.
At the hospital she was a wreck.
I had no choice but to admit her for her own safety under advice from the doctor.
My wife and son were soon discharged from the hospital, but everything was different now.
At the hospital the doctors questioned me about my wife, did she have a history of mental illness?
Had she ever tried to hurt herself or anyone else?
Had she expressed signs of postpartum depression?
Was she capable of hurting my son?
What did she mean when she said that I had told her I felt trapped?
Were we having problems?
I did not let any of this affect me.
I had to remain strong.
I couldnt let their suspicions infect my mind.
My wife and son would return home with me, under my care.
Things would all be better soon.
I was determined to bring normalcy back to the house.
But my wife showed no signs of improvement.
She became listless, sleeping all day, and pacing all night.
Her doctor prescribed new combinations of drugs to treat her symptoms, but she only seemed to get worse.
She would refuse to feed or even hold our son out of fear.
She began to rely more and more on Claire to take over the care of our son.
It had been six months to the day since the birth of my son.
I quietly crept towards the bedroom and peeked in to see my wife asleep in our bed.
Claire startled as she realized my presence and backed away dropping the pillow to the floor.
I rushed to my son, but as I held in my arms I knew it was too late.
His body was limp and cold.
His eyes, open and expressionless.
I immediately knew I had to stifle my smile and feign horror.
My plan had worked.
The police investigation revealed that Claire was actually a woman named Fiona Goode.
Apparently during her tenure as a nanny, more than one child had suffered from suspicious respiratory ailments.
Soon, she graduated to infanticide when she smothered 4 month-old Jessica Lynn.
Six months later she had reinvented herself as Claire.
Imagine my surprise when this woman was advertising her services as a nanny with such a clear paper trail.
All in my area.
Could it be more perfect?
This time around she would not be so lucky with the justice system.
These allegations fell on deaf ears and on advice of counsel she entered a guilty plea.
She avoided the death penalty and received life in prison.
My wife could not cope with what she deemed her culpability in the death of our child.
She had found her calling.
She was a mother.
Now she was an empty shell of a woman.
She was disheveled, wallowing in self-pity, careening towards the edge of sanity.
I hate her so fucking much.
I found her in our sons room the morning after we had buried him.
But life must go on as they say.
No one seemed surprised by my decision to sell the house and leave my job.
They would want you to live your life, they say.
A fresh start will be good for you.
And I couldnt agree more.
From the moment I first saw my son, I knew.
Life as I knew it would be forever changed.
I had become a man, a free man at that and my future was mine and mine alone.
