I didn’t think long. I liked kids. I lived close by. And something in her voice—fragile, hopeful—made it impossible to say no.
So every Friday for a year, her kids came to my apartment. We built blanket forts, burned frozen pizzas, and watched the same animated movies until I could recite them by heart. I learned which one hated peas, which one needed a nightlight, which one cried quietly when they missed their mom.
Mara tried to pay me at first. I refused, every time.
“I’m not a service,” I told her. “I’m just helping.”
My boyfriend didn’t see it that way.
“You’re being used,” he said more than once. “Every week? For free? That’s not kindness—that’s charity she’s taking advantage of.”
I brushed it off, but the words stuck. Especially on nights when I was exhausted, when I canceled my own plans, when I wondered if maybe he was right.
Then, suddenly, it ended.
