One morning, when I woke up, I was struck by the fact that my son’s diaper was already clean, and his bottle was empty. When I discovered what was happening at night, I was speechless. I am a single mother, I live alone, and I take care of my eight-month-old son by myself. He is very active and often wakes up during the night. One morning, when I woke up, I was first surprised that he hadn’t woken up during the night. Then, when I went to change his diaper, I had a big surprise: it was already changed. The bottle was also empty. At first, I thought that maybe I had changed his diaper and given him his bottle in the middle of the night without remembering it. But the next day, the same scene repeated itself: another changed diaper, another empty bottle. And this time, I had absolutely no memory of doing it. It started to get concerning. What if I was sleepwalking? That was the only explanation that seemed logical to me. In the following nights, my son continued to sleep peacefully without waking up, and every morning everything was clean and tidy. That’s when I decided to stay awake to understand what was really going on. I stayed awake all night, and finally, I discovered what was happening at night. I was speechless…

That night, I made a bitter cup of coffee, turned off all the lights except for the cloud-shaped nightlight in my son’s room. I turned my phone toward the crib, turned it on night mode. The clock read 1:58 when a very faint rattle sounded outside the door. Not a cat. Not the wind. A key.

My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. The lock turned with a soft click. The door opened slightly. A faint scent of lavender and fabric softener wafted in, carrying a slender figure in a cream cardigan.

The figure didn’t turn on the light. She walked straight—as if she knew the house by heart—to the crib. She bent down, picked up my son with perfect calm, changed his diaper with the practiced movements of a neonatal nurse, and hummed a strange tune:

“Frère Jacques… Frère Jacques…”

I held my breath as I walked out of the kitchen corner, clutching the broom handle, and turned on the light with a bang.

— Who are you? — I blurted out, my voice trembling.

The woman was stunned, but not in a hurry. She carefully put my child down, pulled the blanket up to his waist, then turned around, her gray eyes gentle but dark from lack of sleep:

— Don’t be afraid. I’m Alma. In apartment 402 above you.

She raised her empty hands, apologetic:
— I… I’m sorry for breaking in. The first night I heard the baby crying through the ventilation duct, I knocked on the door but no one answered. I have… the old tenant’s spare key, she asked me to come over and feed the cat when needed. I just… couldn’t stand the crying.

I was stunned. Anger and gratitude mixed together like a whirlpool.

— You can’t just walk into someone else’s house, you know?

— I know. And I was wrong. — Alma bowed her head. — I worked as a neonatal nurse for seventeen years. I lost my grandson to a severe asthma attack… — her voice broke a beat — I heard your son wheezing, I guessed he had reflux and a mild rhinitis. I changed his diaper, held him and patted his back, then mixed a warm bottle of milk with two teaspoons of fennel water. I just wanted to… help.

I looked at the crib: my son was fast asleep, breathing smoothly. The video on the phone was still running; everything she said matched. She didn’t touch her purse, didn’t rummage through anything. Just changed his diaper, rocked him, fed him.

— You should have rung the doorbell. — I said slowly, trying to stay calm.

— I won’t repeat myself. — Alma nodded slightly, backing away from the door — If you want, I’ll bring back the key tomorrow, and you can change the lock. I only ask one thing: take him to the asthma doctor soon. Last night he wheezed.

She hesitated, put a folded piece of paper on the table:
— Here’s the formula I wrote down, and my number. If you need a babysitter, just call. If not, pretend we never met.

The door closed. The apartment fell silent again. I slumped back into my chair, confused and… relieved. Perhaps the story would have ended there, if the second thing hadn’t happened the next night.

I decided to change the locks, install a chain, and install a camera in the lobby. I texted Alma: “Thanks for your help. Please ring the bell first. I’ll take the baby to the doctor tomorrow morning.” She replied with a blue heart and said nothing more.

2:17 AM. The small alarm on my phone rang. The lobby camera showed a silhouette of someone… not Alma.

A man in a baseball cap and a dark blue building management jacket stood outside my door, looked through the peephole, and pulled out a bunch of multi-purpose keys. His hand reached for the lock. Click… click. I couldn’t get in because I had changed the lock and installed the chain. He stopped, took out his phone, and spoke very softly.

— “Can’t open it. The old lady on the fourth floor probably doesn’t use keys anymore. Let me try another way.”

My blood froze. I turned off the light, carefully carried my child to a hidden corner, and held tightly onto the pepper spray I had bought earlier. Outside the door, the man pulled out a thin piece of plastic and inserted it into the slot, intending to pry open the tongue.

I quickly dialed 911, whispering the address. The operator asked me to stay on the line and not leave the door.

A light knock on the door. He called out softly:
— “Ma’am, check the hot water pipe. There’s a leak, need to come in immediately.”

I took a deep breath, pressed the camera’s public speaker mic:
— “I’ve called the police. Leave the door now.”

The figure froze. He looked up and looked straight at the lens. A long scar from his cheekbone to his left ear flashed under the hallway light. Then he stepped back, smiled without his right front tooth, and raised his shoulders:

— “Loneliness makes you suspicious. Whatever.”

He walked away—but not far. He waited around the corner, just a half-inch out of camera range.

Three minutes. Five minutes. Ten minutes.

Then the red-green light swept across the hallway. Two police officers appeared. The baseball-capped man turned on his heel, but an officer blocked his way. They asked for his badge. The name and number didn’t match the building’s database—the night guard confirmed “no one on this shift” had been assigned to my floor.

He chuckled. “I was just checking for smoke alarms.”

On him, the police found a lock-picking kit and a list of apartments printed on scrap paper—mine was at the top. He was handcuffed on the spot.

I opened the door a crack as a female officer came to calm me. My son was breathing steadily and warmly on my chest, like a small bag of sand keeping me steady.

“We’ll work with the management. You did the right thing by installing the cameras,” she said. — And… who changed the baby’s diaper the last few nights? It didn’t seem like it was him.

I swallowed:
— It was a neighbor. She used to be a neonatal nurse. She just… helped.

The female officer nodded, leaving her card and direct number:
— If you see anyone around the door again, call this number directly. For now, please don’t open the door to anyone except someone you absolutely trust.

When they left, it was just dawn. I texted Alma: “Thanks for the reminder. The baby will be examined this morning. And… be careful. Someone pretending to be a technician tried to enter my house tonight.” The other side replied quickly:

“I heard his footsteps. I called the front desk but no one caught me. I’m behind my cat’s eye the whole time. Don’t worry—I’ll be watching the stairs next night.”

I laughed—for the first time in many nights, not out of sarcasm or helplessness—but out of a strange warm feeling: I was no longer alone.

In the morning, the doctor confirmed that my baby had mild acid reflux and allergic rhinitis, prescribed a nasal spray, changed the formula, and instructed me to elevate the head of the mattress 15 degrees. When I got home, I knocked on the door of apartment 402.

Alma opened the door, her gray eyes shining. I placed a new key fob in her hand—not the key to my apartment, but the key to the emergency cabinet I had installed in the hallway: it contained pre-filled bottles, diapers, wet wipes, and a note:

“If you need help, ring the bell. If I don’t open it, please use this cabinet. Thank you for saving us the first night.”

She hugged me—an awkward but reassuring hug.
—Thank you for believing in me, even though I started off on the wrong foot.

That night, I sent in a request to the management to change all master keys, along with a video. The building’s residents were buzzing in the group chat; a few single mothers sent private messages: “Thank you for speaking up.” The baseball cap guy was charged with trespassing and possession of a pickpocketing tool.

As for me, every time I looked at my baby sleeping peacefully, I remembered the faint scent of lavender and Alma’s soft singing. The biggest surprise turned out not to be “who’s changing diapers at night,” but why people choose to do the right thing when no one is watching—when only kindness and loss are left to push them toward each other.

The following Saturday night, the clock passed 2, the apartment was quiet. I opened my phone to check the camera as usual. In the far corner, on the landing, I saw an old figure sitting upright—Alma, her hand resting on her cane, quietly guarding the stairs. In the dim light, I read the note she had posted on her door:

“Someone here is awake for the children.”

I closed the screen, pulled the blanket over my baby, and for the first time in months, I slept a full night’s sleep