My new employer, an Ivy League grad who’d just returned from a stint overseas, told me that traditional parenting was primitive. She demanded I raise her child according to the instructions of an AI. “The AI says 30ml. You will not feed him 31ml.” “The baby’s crying? Don’t you dare pick him up. First, log the decibels and duration into the app, then select a tag for the cause. The AI will analyze if it’s an ‘unproductive cry.’” “Remember,” she said, her eyes sweeping over me with disdain, “you are here to execute commands, not to act on ‘experience.’” She added, “My son is destined for the Ivy League. His life must be managed with the utmost scientific and efficient methods from day one. I’m paying you top dollar, and it’s not to be his ‘second mommy.’” I looked at the tiny infant in the cradle, his small body yearning for a simple embrace, and for the first time, I questioned my title as a top-tier maternity nurse. But when I followed her AI’s instructions to the letter, I have to wonder… why did she come to regret it so deeply? 1. “He’s crying. Log it.” Amanda’s voice was as sterile and sharp as a scalpel, utterly devoid of emotion. I clenched my fists, my eyes fixed on the monitor where the decibel level of the cries was spiking violently. In the cradle, the baby, only twelve days old, had a face flushed a furious, blotchy red. His cries were piercing, punctuated by pathetic, ragged gasps for air. My heart felt like it was caught in a vise. “Amanda,” I pleaded, my voice barely a whisper—a first in my entire career. “From the sound of it, he has gas. Let me give him a little massage to help relieve it.” Amanda didn’t even look up, her fingers flying across the iPad screen. “The AI analysis concludes ‘attention-seeking cry.’ It’s classified as unproductive.” She swiped the pop-up away and issued a cold command. “The instruction is to ‘observe in place for fifteen minutes to cultivate independence.’” “Fifteen minutes?” The words escaped my lips in a horrified gasp. “He’ll cry himself sick!” Amanda finally lifted her gaze, her eyes holding the same look one might give a Neanderthal trying to explain quantum physics. “Sarah, have I not made it clear? You are here to execute commands.” “Your experience, your ‘I think,’ is worthless.” “I paid a fortune for this ‘Ivy Prep’ development system. It’s backed by the research of hundreds of child psychologists and behavioral scientists.” She scoffed. “You really think your folk wisdom trumps that?” She tapped the iPad. “This is science. Do you understand science?” The seconds ticked by like tiny, agonizing drops of water. The baby’s cries faded from sharp shrieks to a raw, hoarse rasp. His little body twitched and trembled. Every sound was a lash against my heart. I’ve been a premium maternity nurse for a decade, caring for over a hundred infants. Not a single one had ever been tortured so “scientifically.” Amanda sat on the sofa, sipping coffee, noise-canceling headphones clamped over her ears. She occasionally glanced at the timer on her screen, her brow furrowed—not with concern for her crying child, but with annoyance that the process was "inefficient." “Fourteen minutes, thirty seconds… thirty-five…” I stared at the cradle, my own breath catching in my throat. At exactly fifteen minutes, an alarm chimed. Amanda removed her headphones, a flicker of satisfaction on her face. “You see? The command is complete. He cried himself out and stopped on his own.” But the baby in the cradle hadn’t stopped. His cries were just too weak to be heard, a faint, desperate mewling. He had exhausted himself completely. His face was turning bluish, his lips trembling. “Amanda, something’s wrong!” I rushed forward. Ignoring her protocol, I reached out to touch his forehead. It was clammy and cold, slick with sweat. “What do you think you’re doing!” Amanda’s voice was a whip-crack. She shoved me away. “Who gave you permission to touch him? Do you have any idea how many germs are on your hands? Try that again, and you won’t see a dime of this month’s pay!” She walked to the cradle and peered down, her brow knitting in confusion. “Why is he still whimpering? The system clearly stated he’d reached the ‘silence threshold.’” She poked his cheek as if testing a faulty machine. I couldn’t take it anymore. I darted around her and scooped the baby into my arms. Laying him gently across my lap, I expertly began to massage his tiny belly. In less than thirty seconds, a series of soft poots broke the silence. The baby’s tiny, tense body went limp, and he let out a long, shuddering sigh. The weak cries ceased. He smacked his little lips and drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep. The world was finally quiet. Amanda stood frozen, her face a shifting canvas of purple and white. There was no relief in her eyes, no gratitude for her son’s comfort. Instead, she fixed me with a look laced with venom. “Sarah, this is a flagrant challenge to the rules I have established.” “You are undermining my son’s foundational understanding of order.” “You think you’ve won, don’t you?” Cradling the warm, soft life in my arms, I said nothing. For the first time in my career, I didn’t answer my employer. All I could think was that this magnificent, gilded apartment felt as cold and unforgiving as hell. 2. The next day, a giant whiteboard appeared on the living room wall. Drawn on it in multi-colored markers was a “Performance Evaluation Chart.” My name, “Sarah,” was written at the very top, followed by a dense list of metrics: “Feeding Duration Variance (sec).” “Instructional Deviation (%).” “Non-Essential Physical Contact (count).” “Subjective Intervention (count).” Next to each item was a deduction amount in glaring red ink. “Well, Sarah,” Amanda said, holding a pointer like a stern headmistress, “since you seem to struggle with modern app-based management, we’ll use a more traditional method you might understand.” She tapped the whiteboard. “From now on, every action you take will be logged. Any deviation from the BabyAI’s directives will be quantified and penalized. One point, one hundred dollars.” She lifted her chin, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. “I’m going to let you see for yourself just how worthless that ‘experience’ of yours really is.” I stared at the chart, a wave of dizziness washing over me. This wasn’t a job. It was a sentence. At noon, the app prompted a 100ml feeding. As I brought the bottle to the baby’s lips, he turned his head violently and started wailing. I checked the nipple—it was the smallest size. The flow was too slow, and he was getting frustrated. “Amanda, he’s outgrown this nipple. We need to switch to a medium-flow.” “The app hasn’t indicated a change is necessary,” she noted, not looking up from her logging. “‘Crying Cause’ tag selected: ‘Feeding Resistance.’ The AI recommends a five-minute pause before retrying.” “But—” “No ‘buts,’” she cut me off. “Sarah, your job is to execute.” Five minutes later, the baby was frantic with hunger, his cries tearing through the apartment. When the bottle approached again, he screamed even louder, choking and sputtering as milk dribbled down his chin, soaking his collar. My heart ached. I reached to swap the nipple. Amanda’s hand shot out and clamped down on mine. “What are you doing? Another ‘subjective intervention’?” “He’s choking! He could get aspiration pneumonia!” I pleaded. “The app indicates the choking is due to improper breathing during a tantrum, not the nipple.” She pointed a manicured finger at the whiteboard, at the “Subjective Intervention” line. “That’s a five-hundred-dollar deduction. Think carefully.” I looked at her cold, impassive face, then at the infant struggling in agony. My hand, clenched into a fist, slowly went slack. I was forced to watch as the minutes ticked by, the milk in the bottle remaining untouched. Finally, Amanda logged the entry: “Feeding attempt failed. Reason: Executor failed to pacify infant effectively.” Then, on my performance chart, she drew a heavy, deliberate “-5.” That evening, Amanda’s sister, Jessica, came to visit. She was as impeccably dressed and radiated the same air of elite superiority as Amanda. “Mandy, this system is genius! He’s so little and already getting an elite education.” Amanda preened. “Exactly. It’s all about the starting line, you know?” She gestured to me in the corner, changing the baby’s diaper. “Look at the nanny I hired. Yesterday she was arguing with me. Today, she’s as tame as a lamb.” Amanda came over to inspect my work. She ran a finger along the diaper’s edge, and her brow furrowed. “Sarah, come here.” My stomach dropped. “The app’s standard tutorial specifies the diaper’s anti-leak guards must be extended outward by 3 millimeters. I’d estimate yours are at 2.5 millimeters. Substandard.” She picked up her marker, ready to make another deduction. Jessica giggled, covering her mouth. “Mandy, you’re being a little intense. It’s like you’re managing an IPO.” “Parenting is the most important project of my life,” Amanda stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Any oversight, no matter how small, can lead to a deviation in the final outcome.” She turned back to me, her tone dripping with condescension. “Sarah, I pay you the highest salary in the industry, and it’s not for you to slack off. I know you were probably respected in your previous households, that people listened to you. But can those families compare to us? Can their children’s futures compare to my son’s? You need to recognize your place. You are a service provider. Act like one. Swallow that unnecessary pride and your so-called ‘experience.’ Only then can you truly improve.” With that, she deducted another point from my chart. I stared at the glaring red marks on the board, then at the patronizing, smug smiles on the sisters’ faces. A wave of nausea churned in my stomach. I said nothing. I just walked quietly to my room, reached into the bottom of my suitcase, and pulled out a small recording pen I hadn’t used in years. I pressed the button. 3. “Cry-it-out conditioning, Day Three.” Amanda’s voice, crisp and cold, came through the baby monitor. “Objective: Achieve over four hours of continuous, unassisted sleep. Zero intervention.” It was one in the morning. In the nursery, the baby had been screaming himself hoarse for two straight hours. I sat in my small room, listening to those agonizing, desperate cries. My heart felt like it was being fried in boiling oil. My door was locked from the outside. Amanda had said it was to “prevent my sentimentality from compromising the training’s efficacy.” I had begged her through the monitor. “Amanda, his throat is raw! He’s running a low-grade fever. We have to take him to the hospital!” Her derisive laugh crackled back. “Sarah, how many times do I have to tell you? This is a necessary phase for ‘resilience forging.’ The stress threshold was precisely calculated by the AI based on his weight and development. A slight temperature increase is a normal immune response to stress. Your alarmism will only create a weak, dependent mama’s boy. My son will one day be a titan on Wall Street. You think he can’t handle this?” I pounded on the door in desperation. “This isn’t resilience, it’s abuse!” “Abuse?” Her voice shot up, laced with fury at the accusation. “I’m investing millions in his future, and you call it abuse? What does a woman from some backwater town know about elite education? Say one more word, and you’re fired. Get out!” After that, the monitor transmitted only one sound: the baby’s cries, growing weaker and weaker until they were nothing more than the whimpering of a kitten. I slid down the door and sat on the floor, tears streaming silently down my face. I hated how powerless I was. I even began to wonder… was I wrong? Were my beliefs in love and experience truly outdated? Did this elite class really possess a secret formula for success that was beyond my comprehension? At 3 a.m., the crying finally stopped. The silence that followed was absolute, terrifying. My heart leaped into my throat, seized by a primal fear. I threw myself against the door, banging with all my might. “Amanda! Open the door! Something’s wrong! The baby’s not making a sound!” Several long minutes passed before the lock clicked open. Amanda stood there in a silk robe, her face a mask of irritation. “What are you screaming about? The training was a success. He’s achieved a ‘state of silence.’ You’ve woken me up.” I shoved past her and ran to the crib. The baby’s face was flushed crimson, his lips cracked and peeling. His breathing was so shallow it seemed like it could stop at any moment. I touched his forehead—it was burning. “We have to go to the hospital! Now!” I scooped him up and made for the door. Amanda blocked my path like a stone wall, her face a mask of crazed obsession. “You are not going anywhere.” “This is the most critical moment of the stress test! I need the complete twelve-hour data set! If you take him to the hospital now, the data will be contaminated. All of this will be for nothing!” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. She didn’t care if her son lived or died. She only cared about her data. “Get out of my way!” I tried to push past her, clutching the baby. She ripped him from my arms, holding him tight like a precious artifact. But she wasn’t looking at her son; she was looking at the camera of the baby monitor. “Stay back! You stupid woman, you’re trying to ruin everything!” While she was distracted, I grabbed a cup of water from the nightstand, trying to get a few drops onto the baby’s lips. The moment it touched him, she slapped me across the face, hard. The sting was fiery and sharp. “Who told you to give him water!” she shrieked hysterically. “Hydration levels are a core metric of this endurance test! You performed an unauthorized humanitarian intervention! The data is contaminated!” Right in front of me, she grabbed her iPad. With a trembling finger that held a strange, ecstatic energy, she typed a new entry. “Event Log: Executor Sarah performed an unauthorized humanitarian intervention at 03:15, contaminating the data for the ‘Endurance Limit Training.’ Assessment… Failure.” She looked up, her bloodshot eyes filled with a venomous hatred. “You destroyed my data model!” In that instant, looking at her twisted face, contorted with rage over “contaminated data,” looking at the tiny, dying baby in her arms being treated like a lab rat, the last shred of warmth I held for the word “mother” shattered into ice. I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth and slowly stood up straight. I looked at her, my expression as calm and still as a dead sea. Fine. You want data. I’ll give you the most perfect data you’ve ever seen. 4. The next morning, I was a different person. At breakfast, Amanda announced a new “punitive clause.” “Given your appalling behavior last night, your bonus for the week is canceled. Furthermore, to eliminate your subjective interference, from now on, you must request my permission before every action. Only after I approve may you proceed. Upon completion, I will sign off on the process log.” “I will make you understand,” she said, savoring her power, “who is the master of this house, and who makes the rules.” She thought this was a final humiliation, a way to break me. She didn’t see the cold, almost imperceptible smile that touched my lips as I lowered my head. This was exactly what I wanted. At 10 a.m., the app issued a command: “Initiate ‘Visual Tracking Training.’ Use black-and-white cards at a distance of 25cm from the infant’s eyes. Move at a constant speed for 3 minutes.” I held up the cards, moving them in front of the baby’s face. As a newborn, he couldn’t focus. His eyes were wide and vacant, showing no reaction at all. After one minute, I stopped and turned to Amanda. “Amanda, the baby is still weak from his fever. Continuing this will cause visual fatigue and could even lead to strabismus.” Amanda, in the middle of a yoga pose with a face mask on, didn’t even open her eyes. “The app says three minutes. It will be three minutes. Don’t make excuses for your laziness.” “Understood,” I replied calmly. I continued to wave the cards mechanically in front of the baby’s vacant eyes. With my other hand, I discreetly activated the recording app on the phone in my apron pocket. “Amanda, it is now 10:05 a.m. I have advised you of the potential risks of excessive visual training. Is it your directive to continue for the full three minutes?” A grunt of annoyance came from the yoga mat. “Yes.” “Instruction received.” I continued the motion until the three-minute alarm sounded. Then, I walked over to her with the logbook and a pen. “Amanda, please sign here. ‘Visual Tracking Training,’ completed for three minutes as per your direct order.” She scribbled her name in annoyance, not even glancing at me. At noon, it was time for a feeding. The app, having processed last night’s “failure,” had automatically adjusted the plan. “To correct risk of ‘overfeeding,’ current feeding volume is reduced to 60ml.” The baby, ravenous, screamed in protest. He drained the 60ml in seconds, then sucked desperately on the empty bottle, his little body trembling with hunger. Again, I approached Amanda. “He’s clearly still hungry. Based on my experience, he needs at least another 40ml.” “The app’s judgment is more scientific than your experience,” she said with a cold glance. “It has identified this as ‘suckle dependency,’ not hunger.” “Understood.” I turned on the recorder again. “Amanda, it is now 12:30 p.m. I have advised you that the infant is in a state of hunger. Is it your directive to adhere to the app’s 60ml limit and refuse additional milk?” “Are you always this annoying? Yes! Execute the command!” “Instruction received.” I walked back and pried the empty bottle from the baby’s mouth. His cries immediately filled the apartment. Amanda put on her headphones and blasted her music. I brought the logbook to her. “Amanda, please sign.” In the afternoon, during a diaper change, I pointed to the baby’s bottom. It was an angry, inflamed red, with tiny points of blood beading on the broken skin. “Amanda, he has a severe diaper rash. He needs cream, and the area must be kept dry.” The app’s instruction read: “To build skin tolerance, reduce use of chemical skincare products. Apply ointment once daily.” It wasn’t time for the scheduled application. “Then wait until it’s time,” Amanda said, her tone leaving no room for argument. Once again, I mechanically repeated my process: verbal warning, recorded confirmation, signed authorization. For three days. Three whole days. I became a machine—no emotion, no judgment, only obedience. I followed every one of Amanda and the AI’s absurd commands. I bundled the feverish baby in thick clothes to “sweat it out.” I fed him AI-recommended fruit juice while he had diarrhea. I allowed his diaper rash to fester into open sores. And every single time, I first offered my professional advice. Every single time, Amanda shot it down with a new, more cutting insult. And every single time, I would calmly record her verbal confirmation before having her sign her name to the log. My book filled with her arrogant, looping signature. Next to each one, I noted the time and the baby’s exact condition. The baby visibly withered. His initial roars of protest faded to whimpers, and then to silence. He lost the energy to even cry. He would just lie there, staring blankly at the ceiling, his once-bright eyes now clouded with a dull, grey haze. Amanda was thrilled. “You see, Sarah? This is what science looks like. His crying frequency is down 70%. His sleep duration has increased by 30%. He is becoming efficient and independent.” She gazed at her dying infant as if admiring a masterpiece. On the evening of the fourth day, Amanda’s husband, Mark, returned from a business trip. He was a gentle-looking man who immediately headed for the nursery. When he saw the tiny, sallow, lifeless creature in the cradle, he froze. “What… what happened? Leo… what happened to him?” His hand trembled as he reached for his son, but he recoiled when he saw the raw, broken skin on the baby’s bottom. “His rash! My God, what did you do!” Amanda walked in, a hint of annoyance on her face. “What are you overreacting for? It’s just a normal diaper rash.” “Normal? It’s raw meat!” Mark’s voice cracked as he pointed at me. “He was fine when I left! Was it you? Did you neglect him, Sarah?” Before I could speak, Amanda jumped in, her voice dripping with scorn and blame. “It has nothing to do with her. I’ve been scientifically correcting her outdated parenting methods. What do you know? It’s called ‘skin desensitization therapy.’ The process is difficult, but the results are worth it.” Mark stared at her as if she were insane. “Are you crazy? What kind of sick therapy tortures a baby like this!” “You’re the one who’s crazy! You’re a fool, trapped in your traditional mindset!” Amanda’s voice rose, and she jabbed a finger at me. “It’s her fault! This nanny has been whispering in my ear the whole time, trying to sabotage my judgment! She intentionally failed to follow my instructions because she wanted to prove me wrong! She can’t stand to see my child be superior! She’s a malicious, evil woman!” Stunned by her tirade, Mark’s suspicious gaze fell back on me. I stood my ground, my face a blank mask. Slowly, I lifted my head to meet his questioning eyes. “Mr. Collins, your wife is right. I am an executor of commands.” “Which is why, starting three days ago, I began video recording all of my procedures.” “Every feeding, every diaper change, every so-called ‘training session.’” “Especially the ‘optimized instructions’ that Mrs. Collins gave, which often contradicted the app.” “And every time, I recorded her signature of approval, along with her frequent mockery of my ‘stupidity.’” “I have it all on a separate phone. She said it was for my own performance review, so a ‘simple nanny’ like me could learn.” I calmly watched the color drain from Amanda’s face as I woke up my phone’s screen. “Which part would you like to review first? The ‘cry-it-out conditioning,’ or the ‘hunger endurance test’?”
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