I’m a single mom to my five-year-old daughter, Lily. She’d been unwell, so I hired a babysitter, Jessica, a kind college student with glowing references, while I went to work. That Friday, I expected to return to cartoons or little laughs. Instead — there was only silence. No Lily. No Jessica.
I searched every room. Nothing. A knot formed in my stomach. I phoned Jessica. No answer. Sent to voicemail. Then I noticed something else — Lily’s beloved pink backpack was missing. The one she never left home without. Inside that backpack? An AirTag.
My hands trembled as I opened the tracking app. Her location appeared. The AIRPORT. My blood ran cold. I grabbed my keys and drove off, constantly refreshing the location on the way. Still at the airport. Still at the airport.
My mind raced to the darkest places. Why would she take her? Was she leaving the country? I hit 90 on the highway, tears blurring my vision. When I screeched into the Departures lane, I leaped out of the car, following the little blue dot on my screen.
“20 feet away… 10 feet…”
I scanned the crowd, looking for Jessica’s blonde hair or Lily’s pink coat. The dot stopped moving. It was right in front of me. But it wasn’t Jessica.
It was a silver sedan. An Uber.
I banged on the passenger window, screaming. The driver, an older man, looked terrified. He rolled down the window. “Where is she?! Where is my daughter?!”
He looked confused, then reached into the back seat and held up the pink backpack. “You mean the lady who left this? Lady, please, I’ve been trying to call the number on the tag inside!”
“Where is she?” I sobbed, snatching the bag.
“She didn’t get a flight,” the driver said quickly. “She hailed me on your street. She was screaming that the little girl wasn’t breathing. She told me to drive to the hospital, but she jumped out at the ER entrance and forgot the bag. I just came here for my next fare.”
The hospital.
I felt like I was going to throw up. I didn’t even thank him; I just ran back to my car.
Ten minutes later, I burst into the Emergency Room waiting area. “Lily! Lily Davis!”
A nurse pointed to a room in the back. I ran down the hall and froze in the doorway.
There was Lily, asleep in a hospital bed, hooked up to a monitor. And sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to her, holding her tiny hand, was Jessica. She was pale, her makeup running, looking exhausted.
She looked up and burst into tears when she saw me. “I’m so sorry I didn’t answer,” she choked out. “Her fever spiked so fast, then she started seizing. I couldn’t find my phone in the panic, so I just grabbed her and ran to the street. I think I left my phone in the cushions at your house.”
I walked over and hugged her so hard we both almost fell over.
Jessica hadn’t kidnapped my daughter. She hadn’t stolen her. In the moment of crisis, she didn’t wait for permission or worry about protocol. She just acted.
The doctor told me later that if she had waited for an ambulance, Lily might have suffered permanent damage.
I found the AirTag at the airport, but I found my daughter alive because of the babysitter I almost called the police on. Jessica isn’t just our sitter anymore; she’s family.
