My husband James and I desperately wanted children, but I couldn’t conceive. Doctors shrugged, insisting that both of us were perfectly fine reproductively. All we could do was hope, pray, and wait.
Six years later, a miracle happened—our daughter was born, named Emma in honor of my late mother. When Emma was nine months old, she was diagnosed with celiac disease. Neither James nor I had ever heard of it.
— It’s a hereditary condition caused by a permanent intolerance to gluten, or simply put, the protein in wheat, — the doctor explained. — It’s not the worst disease, but it’s tricky. If untreated, it leads to symptoms like diarrhea, vomiting, bloating, mood swings, and delays in physical and mental development.
— What’s the treatment? — I asked, barely holding back tears.
— A strict diet. Your daughter is lucky we caught it early. If you eliminate all gluten-containing foods, she’ll develop normally.
— You said it’s hereditary, — James interjected, having listened silently until now. — But my wife and I are healthy.
— Then someone in your close family is affected. It doesn’t have to be celiac disease. It could be cancer or diabetes.
— My mother died of stomach cancer, — I managed to say.
— And my father has diabetes, — James added grimly.
— Diet, diet, and more diet, — the pediatrician reminded us as we left.
Emma couldn’t eat anything made from grains—wheat, rye, or barley. No bread, no pastries, no pasta.
— Fine. She’ll load up on vegetables, meat, and fish, — James said, cheering up slightly. — At least she’ll grow up slim!
But it wasn’t that simple. Gluten, deadly for Emma, lurked in countless products where manufacturers sneak in flour or additives. When she was tiny, sticking to the diet was manageable. But as she grew, we had to be vigilant to stop her from grabbing forbidden items off the table or out of the fridge—a sausage, a cookie, a slice of bread, cheese, or even licking ketchup, mayonnaise, or sipping instant coffee.
Her third birthday was approaching, and I faced a dilemma: return to work or quit. Ideally, I’d quit to stay home—nobody cares for a sick child better than their mother. But James, despite his many qualities, earned modestly. Before maternity leave, my bank salary was nearly two and a half times his, with a promotion to head of the foreign exchange department on the horizon. Gluten-free products were pricier, straining our budget. Staying home wasn’t an option.
Sending Emma to daycare wasn’t feasible either. Entrusting her to a grandmother was impossible—my mother passed when I was in college, and James’s parents lived across the country. The only solution was a nanny, but not just any nanny. Emma needed a Mary Poppins and Dr. Spock rolled into one. Whether such a person existed was the question.
After a rigorous search, we chose Sarah, a thirty-five-year-old with a medical background and glowing references.
— Don’t worry, I’ve got this, — she assured us after we explained Emma’s condition.
She managed… for exactly one week. Then she vanished, taking my jewelry and valuables. James contacted her supposed former employers, only to discover they didn’t exist—her references and nursing diploma were fake.
The next nanny, Margaret, was fifty-nine but looked younger. Polished speech, neat attire, nearly forty years of teaching experience, and three grandchildren inspired confidence. Days later, Emma’s health deteriorated—nausea, diarrhea, and sudden irritability. Our once-obedient, sweet girl turned nervous and aggressive. We rushed her to her doctor.
— She’s clearly off her diet, — the doctor stated.
Margaret swore she fed Emma only the approved foods from the daily menu I prepared.
— She’s lying! — I snapped to James after Margaret left.
— Maybe not, — he countered. — Remember when Emma secretly ate a crab stick three months ago? She was sick then too.
— I don’t know… — I said, unconvinced.
Installing hidden cameras strained our budget, but it was the only way to verify Margaret’s honesty. The first recording left us stunned. As soon as we left for work, Margaret turned on the TV and watched a soap opera. Lunchtime came, but she stayed glued to the screen. Emma, used to eating on schedule, stopped drawing and approached her.
— I’m hungry! — she said.
— Wait, — Margaret brushed her off. — The good part’s coming.
Emma asked twice more, but Margaret didn’t budge. A second camera in the kitchen caught Emma opening the fridge, pulling a meatball from a pot, and eating it. The horror? Those were our meatballs—I’d mixed in a third of a white loaf to save money.
I never knew my calm, composed husband could yell like that, especially at an older woman. Margaret tried to defend herself, then threatened to sue James for insulting her honor and dignity.
— I’ll sue you! — James roared, waving a USB drive in her face. — Let the judges see your honor and dignity!
Margaret vanished.
The third and fourth nannies were also flawed and fired before their trial periods ended. I was desperate. “I’ll have to quit,” I decided. Yes, we needed money, but Emma’s health trumped everything. When I shared my plan with James, he shook his head.
— Emily, don’t rush. You can always quit later. Let me take a leave—I’ve got over a month with my days off. Maybe we’ll find a better solution.
James’s leave was nearly over, and we were still stumped. My mood was grim. On Saturday, I went grocery shopping, distractedly pushing my cart. Someone called out.
— Emily, don’t you recognize me? — A plainly dressed woman with a weary face approached.
— I’m Laura, Olivia’s mother.
Olivia and I were college classmates, close friends who often visited each other’s homes. Right after graduation, Olivia married an American and moved to Boston. We emailed for a while, but our contact faded. I didn’t recognize Laura“`markdown
A Mother’s Struggle: Finding the Perfect Nanny for a Child with Celiac Disease
My husband James and I desperately wanted children, but I couldn’t conceive. Doctors shrugged, insisting that both of us were perfectly fine reproductively. All we could do was hope, pray, and wait.
Six years later, a miracle happened—our daughter was born, named Emma in honor of my late mother. When Emma was nine months old, she was diagnosed with celiac disease. Neither James nor I had ever heard of it.
— It’s a hereditary condition caused by a permanent intolerance to gluten, or simply put, the protein in wheat, — the doctor explained. — It’s not the worst disease, but it’s tricky. If untreated, it leads to symptoms like diarrhea, vomiting, bloating, mood swings, and delays in physical and mental development.
— What’s the treatment? — I asked, barely holding back tears.
— A strict diet. Your daughter is lucky we caught it early. If you eliminate all gluten-containing foods, she’ll develop normally.
— You said it’s hereditary, — James interjected, having listened silently until now. — But my wife and I are healthy.
— Then someone in your close family is affected. It doesn’t have to be celiac disease. It could be cancer or diabetes.
— My mother died of stomach cancer, — I managed to say.
— And my father has diabetes, — James added grimly.
— Diet, diet, and more diet, — the pediatrician reminded us as we left.
Emma couldn’t eat anything made from grains—wheat, rye, or barley. No bread, no pastries, no pasta.
— Fine. She’ll load up on vegetables, meat, and fish, — James said, cheering up slightly. — At least she’ll grow up slim!
But it wasn’t that simple. Gluten, deadly for Emma, lurked in countless products where manufacturers sneak in flour or additives. When she was tiny, sticking to the diet was manageable. But as she grew, we had to be vigilant to stop her from grabbing forbidden items off the table or out of the fridge—a sausage, a cookie, a slice of bread, cheese, or even licking ketchup, mayonnaise, or sipping instant coffee.
Her third birthday was approaching, and I faced a dilemma: return to work or quit. Ideally, I’d quit to stay home—nobody cares for a sick child better than their mother. But James, despite his many qualities, earned modestly. Before maternity leave, my bank salary was nearly two and a half times his, with a promotion to head of the foreign exchange department on the horizon. Gluten-free products were pricier, straining our budget. Staying home wasn’t an option.
Sending Emma to daycare wasn’t feasible either. Entrusting her to a grandmother was impossible—my mother passed when I was in college, and James’s parents lived across the country. The only solution was a nanny, but not just any nanny. Emma needed a Mary Poppins and Dr. Spock rolled into one. Whether such a person existed was the question.
After a rigorous search, we chose Sarah, a thirty-five-year-old with a medical background and glowing references.
— Don’t worry, I’ve got this, — she assured us after we explained Emma’s condition.
She managed… for exactly one week. Then she vanished, taking my jewelry and valuables. James contacted her supposed former employers, only to discover they didn’t exist—her references and nursing diploma were fake.
The next nanny, Margaret, was fifty-nine but looked younger. Polished speech, neat attire, nearly forty years of teaching experience, and three grandchildren inspired confidence. Days later, Emma’s health deteriorated—nausea, diarrhea, and sudden irritability. Our once-obedient, sweet girl turned nervous and aggressive. We rushed her to her doctor.
— She’s clearly off her diet, — the doctor stated.
Margaret swore she fed Emma only the approved foods from the daily menu I prepared.
— She’s lying! — I snapped to James after Margaret left.
— Maybe not, — he countered. — Remember when Emma secretly ate a crab stick three months ago? She was sick then too.
— I don’t know… — I said, unconvinced.
Installing hidden cameras strained our budget, but it was the only way to verify Margaret’s honesty. The first recording left us stunned. As soon as we left for work, Margaret turned on the TV and watched a soap opera. Lunchtime came, but she stayed glued to the screen. Emma, used to eating on schedule, stopped drawing and approached her.
— I’m hungry! — she said.
— Wait, — Margaret brushed her off. — The good part’s coming.
Emma asked twice more, but Margaret didn’t budge. A second camera in the kitchen caught Emma opening the fridge, pulling a meatball from a pot, and eating it. The horror? Those were our meatballs—I’d mixed in a third of a white loaf to save money.
I never knew my calm, composed husband could yell like that, especially at an older woman. Margaret tried to defend herself, then threatened to sue James for insulting her honor and dignity.
— I’ll sue you! — James roared, waving a USB drive in her face. — Let the judges see your honor and dignity!
Margaret vanished.
The third and fourth nannies were also flawed and fired before their trial periods ended. I was desperate. “I’ll have to quit,” I decided. Yes, we needed money, but Emma’s health trumped everything. When I shared my plan with James, he shook his head.
— Emily, don’t rush. You can always quit later. Let me take a leave—I’ve got over a month with my days off. Maybe we’ll find a better solution.
James’s leave was nearly over, and we were still stumped. My mood was grim. On Saturday, I went grocery shopping, distractedly pushing my cart. Someone called out.
— Emily, don’t you recognize me? — A plainly dressed woman with a weary face approached.
— I’m Laura, Olivia’s mother.
Olivia and I were college classmates, close friends who often visited each other’s homes. Right after graduation, Olivia married an American and moved to Boston. We emailed for a while, but our contact faded. I didn’t recognize Laura. Eight years ago, she was a vibrant beauty; now, she looked aged, gaunt, with dark circles under her eyes and countless wrinkles. She seemed sixty, though barely past fifty. Her clothes screamed thrift store. Did her daughter not help her at all?
— How’s Olivia doing? — I asked, more out of politeness than curiosity.
— You don’t know? Olivia died five years ago. She and her husband crashed their car. A month later, my husband died of a heart attack. I’m all alone now.
Laura brushed a tear from her cheek. I glanced at her basket: a pack of cheap pasta, a small bottle of oil, and a net of sprouted onions.
— Still working at the factory accounting department? — I asked, pointlessly.
— They laid me off a year and a half ago. After fifty, finding decent work is nearly impossible, and I’m far from pension age… — She waved her hand hopelessly.
— How do you survive?
— I’m a janitor, — Laura said, blushing.
— My daughter’s sick and needs a nanny urgently, — I blurted out, surprising myself. — Could you help us?
— I suppose I could, — she nodded shyly. — I’m just not sure I’d manage…
— Let’s try, — I pleaded. — What if it works?
A year has passed.
We removed the hidden cameras long ago—they’re unnecessary. Laura is the nanny we could only dream of. She loves Emma like her own granddaughter, fussing over her even more than James and I do. In these twelve months, Emma hasn’t had a single flare-up—she looks and acts like a perfectly healthy child. She’s grown taller, learned to read, ride a two-wheeler, and play the piano, all thanks to Laura. Laura herself has transformed too: she looks younger, rediscovered joy, and her warm, genuine smile brightens our lives.
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