At 19, I used to babysit a little boy. His mom was super beautiful. She would leave the house at 7 p.m.
and return before midnight. One night, she didn’t return. I was worried; she didn’t answer my calls.
At 3 a.m., I turned on the TV – and froze when I saw her. I found out that she was on the news, listed as a missing person. They showed her photo, the same one framed in their hallway, and said she’d last been seen leaving a charity gala.
My hands started shaking. I checked the locks on every door twice and peeked through the windows. The little boy, Dorian, was fast asleep upstairs, hugging the same stuffed giraffe he took everywhere.
I didn’t know what to do. I had only been babysitting for her a few weeks. Her name was Mirela.
She had this classy, mysterious vibe—always dressed like she came out of a magazine, and she smelled like expensive perfume and fresh roses. But she never told me much about where she went in the evenings. I didn’t ask, and she didn’t share.
I called her phone again, even though I knew it was pointless. Straight to voicemail. I left a shaky message, saying I was still at the house and that Dorian was safe.
I didn’t know if I should call the cops or wait. A part of me hoped it was all a misunderstanding. But deep down, I knew something wasn’t right.
The next morning, there was still no word. I made Dorian breakfast and tried to act normal, but my heart was pounding the whole time. By 9 a.m., a knock at the door made me jump.
Two police officers stood there. They asked if I was the babysitter. I nodded, and they came in.
They looked around, asked a few questions, and gently told me they needed to take Dorian with them for now, since his mother was officially listed as missing. I packed a small bag for him and handed over his giraffe. He clung to my neck before leaving, not fully understanding what was happening.
I sat on the couch after they left, staring at the spot where Mirela usually tossed her keys. Everything felt wrong. For days, I couldn’t sleep.
I kept replaying every moment, trying to remember if she had said anything unusual. But there was nothing. No clues.
No warnings. Then, about a week later, I got a call from an unknown number. “Is this Cami?” the woman asked.
Her voice was soft but rushed. “Yes,” I said, suddenly alert. “It’s Mirela,” she whispered.
My knees buckled, and I sank to the floor. “Oh my God. Where are you?
Are you okay?”
“I can’t talk long. I just needed to hear a familiar voice. Listen, they think I’m someone I’m not.
Please take care of Dorian if anything happens to me.”
“What do you mean? The police—”
“I can’t trust everyone,” she said, and then the line went dead. I stared at my phone, not sure if it had really happened.
I tried calling back, but it didn’t go through. Her number was blocked. The police said the call could have been spoofed.
That sometimes people prey on situations like this. But I knew it was her. There was a tone in her voice I’d recognize anywhere.
A few more weeks passed. Dorian was placed in temporary foster care, and I visited him every few days. He’d always ask, “Where’s Mama?” and I never had a good answer.
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