She wasn’t like the others—quiet, calm, peaceful. Somehow, my son Calen trusted her instantly, clinging to her and crying when she left. At first, it felt sweet.
But then I found a photo in her bag—Calen’s picture with the words “My reason” written on the back. My heart raced. Who calls someone else’s child that?
I waited to talk to her. When I did, Mirela confessed her story.
Her sister Sava was a nurse who cared for Calen when he was born prematurely. Sava, battling cancer, wrote letters about him to Mirela before she died. Those letters gave Mirela hope.
When she moved here, she saw our name and felt drawn to care for Calen—not to take him, but to finish what her sister started.
Her grief had made her cling to that connection, even if she didn’t know how to explain it.
I wasn’t angry. Calen loved her, and now I understood why.
We agreed to pause for a week to heal.
This morning, Calen asked if Mirela was coming. I said no, but maybe soon. He smiled and said, “She always makes my pancakes happy.”
I messaged Mirela, “Let’s talk soon. We’re all still healing.” She replied with a heart.
Sometimes, people enter our lives to fill a gap we didn’t know existed. If we listen, we find shared pain that connects us all.
