I Babysat a Boy for a Year – Then He Told Me His Late Dad Still Visits Him Every Day

I’ve cared for dozens of children as a nanny, but none left an impression like Jack. What started as a quiet job in a grieving household slowly unraveled into something I still struggle to explain.

I’m a 25-year-old nanny. Over the past six years, I’ve worked with every kind of family you can imagine, some chaotic, some cold, and a few that genuinely felt like home. But none of them compared to the past year I spent with Jack and his mom. Let’s call her Maria. That experience changed me in ways I still don’t fully understand.

In simple terms, working for Maria was different.

She hired me last September to look after her seven-year-old son, Jack. Maria lived in a quiet cul-de-sac on the edge of a small town, in one of those cozy, cedar-shingled houses that always smell like cinnamon and laundry.

When I came in for the interview, she seemed tired but kind. The type of woman who had cried so much she no longer needed to. Her eyes were red, but her voice was steady.

“Jack’s father passed away earlier this year in March,” she said. “It was a car accident. I’m doing my best, but it’s hard. My son is a sweet boy, but he’s been quiet lately, detached. I work in town, and I can’t always give him the time he needs.”

I nodded. I’d worked with grieving families before, and this house was in mourning, but still kept its warmth. I knew how unpredictable that kind of pain could be, and I was ready for it, or so I thought.

Then Maria added one more thing.

“You’ll have access to the entire house. Besides babysitting, I’ll need you to help with some light cleaning, vacuuming now and then, and maybe some laundry and dishwashing. You can cook whatever you like, whatever needs doing. Just… one rule.”

She leaned forward, suddenly serious.

“Do not go into my bedroom. Ever. I’m not being rude, I just need that space to be mine. It’s off-limits. Everything else, you manage how you see fit.”

I agreed without hesitation. Everyone grieves differently. Some people shut down, some clean obsessively, and others set the boundaries they need in order to breathe.

So I started the following week. Monday through Friday, 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., sometimes later if Maria had meetings. Jack and I slipped into a rhythm faster than I expected. The year went smoothly.

He was shy at first, barely speaking above a whisper, but his mind was wild with imagination.

We built pillow forts that took over the living room, pretended the couch was a spaceship, played card games with rules he made up on the spot, and baked banana muffins almost every Friday. I always let him crack the eggs. He said it made him feel “like a scientist.”

Jack and I bonded by taking nature walks through the nearby woods, playing hide-and-seek, and reading bedtime stories about robot bears in space.

Jack was a gentle, thoughtful kid who, once, while sitting on a fallen log covered in moss, asked, “Do you think trees remember their birthdays?”

That’s the kind of kid Jack was. He was what others would describe as odd, but he was just deeply sensitive and in tune with his environment and others. Jack was full of questions; no adult ever really knows how to answer.

All was well until something happened a few weeks ago that knocked the air right out of me, changed everything, and almost had me quitting on the spot!

It was a Thursday. Jack had just finished lunch, and I was helping him wind down for his usual nap. Our routine was simple: stuffed animals lined along the edge of the bed, a spaceship story (that day it involved robot dragons searching for pizza on Mars), and the soft hum of the white noise machine.

I had just tucked him in when he turned to me and suddenly said, “I know why Mommy doesn’t want you in her room.”

I looked up from where I was fluffing Mr. Pickle, his stuffed giraffe.

“Oh?” I said, keeping my voice light. “Why’s that, buddy?”

He looked me right in the eyes, and something about his expression made my skin prickle.

“Because Daddy comes home every day, and he goes in there.”

I blinked. My heart slowed, then kicked up again. I crouched beside his bed and smoothed his blanket.

“Jack,” I said gently, “remember what we talked about? Your daddy passed away. He’s not here anymore.”

He nodded like I’d just reminded him of something he already knew.

Then he just shrugged and added, “I know he died. But he still comes. I see him. He walks in and goes into Mommy’s room. He stays for a bit. I hear noises. Like… rustling. Talking. Sometimes crying.”

He said it so casually, like he was describing a neighbor who dropped by every afternoon! My throat went dry. I kept thinking about stories of kids who relive past lives, remembering things from different timelines long before they were born.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” I said carefully, trying to convince myself more than him. “Maybe it’s a dream? Or a memory?”

He shook his head, curls bouncing. “It’s not a dream. He comes when you’re sitting in the living room, watching videos on your phone with headsets, waiting for me to wake up from my nap. Usually, sometime after 3 p.m. You’re supposed to leave early today, right? If you stay a little longer, I’ll show you. He’ll come.”

I blinked. I hadn’t told him about my early departure that day. His knowledge of that didn’t help my strained nerves. But he was right, Maria had asked me to leave at 3 p.m. that day so she could prep for a late meeting via Zoom call.

It hadn’t even crossed my mind to mention it to Jack. He shouldn’t have known.

“Okay,” I said finally. “I’ll stay. But when and how did you manage to see him?”

He giggled guiltily and said, “I sometimes sneak out when I should be napping.”

We laughed, and I reprimanded him gently.

I didn’t bother calling and telling Maria that I wasn’t clocking out immediately; I figured she wouldn’t mind.

Okay, I wasn’t only trying to be a good nanny because I truly didn’t want Jack to go through whatever this was alone, but part of me was curious, and the other part was worried. I figured if I helped Jack with his grief, or whatever this was, his mother would be pleased regardless.

By 2:45 p.m., we’d completed our usual nap routine, but this time, he didn’t close his eyes. He just lay there with the blanket pulled up to his chin, eyes wide and alert. I told him to rest, but he only smiled.

So I sat outside his room with my phone in hand, pretending to scroll. I kept thinking how stupid I was to believe any of this nonsense. But still, my ears were straining so hard, every creak of the house made me jump.

At exactly 3:17 p.m., I heard the front door click open.

My heart hit my ribs! I stood up slowly and peeked around the corner toward the entryway.

There was a man! He moved with purpose but didn’t rush. He was maybe in his mid-30s, olive-toned skin, short brown hair, and a day’s worth of stubble. He wore an old denim jacket and heavy work boots. He didn’t look around. He just walked straight down the hallway toward Maria’s bedroom.

I nearly dropped my phone!

My blood ran cold. I knew that face. I’d seen it in pictures all over the house, family photos, wedding pictures, Jack’s drawings on the fridge.

It was Victor, Jack’s dead father! But how?!

I followed him quietly without thinking. My legs moved while my brain screamed at me to stop. He didn’t look ghostly or transparent. He appeared to be solid. Real.

I could barely breathe as I reached the bedroom door and turned the knob, peeking inside.

He was inside, rifling through drawers. Not calmly, desperately. His back was turned. He was opening and closing drawers, mumbling to himself. He didn’t hear me open the door.

“Hey!” I shouted. “What are you doing?! Who are you?!”

He spun around, startled. His eyes locked on mine, and in that instant, I saw fear.

From behind me, the front door was slammed open, followed by the sound of grocery bags dropping to the floor!

Maria stood in the hallway, frozen, her hands trembling.

“Victor?” she whispered, but her voice cracked at the end.

The man looked between us, then slowly raised his hands like he meant no harm.

“Hi, sorry, please calm down. My name is Liam,” he said. “I’m Victor’s identical twin.”

Everything stood still.

Turns out, Liam and Victor had a major falling out more than a decade ago in their early 20s. They cut ties, then Liam moved across the country and vanished from their lives. Maria never spoke of it because she hadn’t seen or heard from Liam since.

When Victor died in that crash last year, Maria didn’t think to find his estranged brother. She assumed he wouldn’t care. Maybe he didn’t, until he stumbled across a mutual friend’s Facebook post about the funeral.

He didn’t come to mourn, not exactly.

He explained that he didn’t want to cause trouble and wasn’t sure Maria would even let him in if he asked. So he waited and watched. He found that Maria never locked the side door near the laundry room.

He thought Jack would be asleep, with the ground staff (whom he evaded) still available if the boy needed anything, but he’d never noticed me.

Every time, Liam slipped in, searched a little, not aware he was making enough noise to wake Jack, whose room was close to Maria’s, before leaving.

But Jack had seen him. Maybe not clearly at first, but enough. A shadow here, a footstep there. And eventually, he started to believe it was his father visiting from beyond. His heart needed it to be true.

Liam was surprised that Jack had seen him; he had never even met his nephew. Right then, we noticed Jack standing, watching us. That was his first time seeing him. He cried when Jack said, “You look like Daddy. Are you his ghost?”

Maria didn’t involve the police. But before Liam left, he sat in the kitchen with Jack and his mom, and they talked for nearly an hour. He explained everything. Maria cried. She was angry, relieved, and confused.

When they were done, Maria asked him to leave and never come back. Despite his sincere apology, he’d broken into her house and confused her son. However, she let him take the coins and the heirlooms. She also finally locked the side door he used to come in.

Jack never mentioned his dad visiting again after that.

I still don’t know how to feel about it. The whole thing shook me to my core. Ghosts, grief, guilt, and family secrets, all rolled into one weird afternoon.

I guess the only good part is… Jack saw who he needed to see. Even if it wasn’t really him.

And maybe that was enough.

If this story resonated with you, here’s another one: When a passenger sat down next to Marianne on the train in 7B, she noted how he looked familiar. She thought she was seeing a ghost until the message came.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.