NO NANNY LASTED WITH THE MILLIONAIRE’S TRIPLETS — UNTIL A BLACK MAID DID SOMETHING UNBELIEVABLE
What the hell are you doing in my bed? James Morrison’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. He stood frozen in his bedroom doorway, suit wrinkled from the flight, briefcase slipping from his hand. Martha Davies, his maid, lay in his king-sized bed, and surrounding her, sleeping peacefully for the first time in 6 months, were his three sons.
Her eyes opened slowly. No panic, no guilt. Mr. Morrison, she said softly. I can explain. But James wasn’t listening. His face flushed red. “You’re fired,” he said. “Get out of my house now.” Martha didn’t argue. She moved carefully, sliding out from between the boys without waking them.
She smoothed David’s blonde hair back, tucked the blanket around Desmond, whispered something to Daniel that James couldn’t hear. Then she walked past him, shoes in hand, head high. Downstairs, Mrs. Chen stood in the hallway, her eyes widened when she saw Martha’s face, calm but broken. Miss Davies,
– “It’s all right, Mrs. Chen,” Martha said quietly.
– “Goodbye.” The door closed behind her. The gate creaked shut, and Martha Davies stepped out into the cool Boston night, alone.
Upstairs, James stood in his bedroom, breathing hard. The boys didn’t stir. He moved closer, staring at their faces in the dim light. Desmond’s mouth was relaxed. David’s breathing was steady. Daniel’s fists were open. They were asleep. Actually asleep. 23 nannies, therapists, doctors, sleep specialists.
And this woman, this quiet woman who mopped his floors, had done what none of them could. On the nightstand, he saw a folded piece of paper. He opened it…
It was only one sentence.
“Please check the boys’ baby records.”
James frowned. What the hell was that supposed to mean?
He read it again.
And again.
Something cold crawled down his spine.
He went back to the bed, looking at his sons — their peaceful chests rising and falling in perfect rhythm — and suddenly, for the first time in months, he realized something terrifying:
Martha knew something he didn’t.
He rushed to the study, pulling out dusty folders he hadn’t touched since his wife died. Medical notes. Growth charts. Sleep evaluations. His hands trembled as he flipped through page after page.
Then he saw it.
A signature that wasn’t supposed to be there.
A prescription he’d never approved.
A note from a pediatric neurologist he’d never met:
“Recommend discontinuation due to potential neurological overstimulation.”
“Father was informed.”
Signed: Dr. Evelyn Shaw.
Father was not informed.
His blood ran cold.
James grabbed his phone with shaking fingers and dialed the hospital. Midnight, but he didn’t care.
When Dr. Shaw picked up, groggy, he demanded answers.
“Mr. Morrison?” she said, instantly awake when she heard the panic in his voice. “I’m so relieved you called. Please tell me — did the boys ever stop taking the stimulant drops your late wife insisted on?”
James froze.
“My… my wife? She gave them something?”
“Yes,” Dr. Shaw said. “She claimed the boys were too quiet, too passive. She wanted them ‘more responsive.’ I strongly told her the drops could cause severe anxiety, insomnia, even emotional dysregulation in infants.”
James could barely breathe.
His wife had medicated their sons.
For months.
Maybe years.
And he had never known.
His knees buckled as the truth crashed over him.
Six months of screaming.
Six months of violent tantrums.
Six months of refusing to sleep.
Not because they were traumatized by losing their mother.
Not because they were “difficult.”
But because someone kept giving them the drops after she died.
And Martha had been the only one who noticed.
The only one who understood.
The only one who stopped it.
His heart pounded.
His hands shook.
Because there was only one question left:
Who had been giving his children the drops… and why?
And as he looked again at the medical notes, at the careful handwriting, at the elegant loops in the signature—
James Morrison realized something horrifying:
He recognized the handwriting.
