I met Mara at work during one of the hardest years of her life, though I didn’t know it then. She sat two desks away—always smiling, always exhausted, her phone buzzing nonstop. The kind of smile people wear when they don’t want questions.
I learned she was a single mom after overhearing her apologizing to a daycare worker. She had two kids under six. Their father was gone, and every late fee, missed shift, and sick day fell on her alone.
One Friday, she lingered by my desk. “This is awkward,” she said softly. “Would you ever consider babysitting? Just Fridays. I could finally take overtime.”
I agreed without much thought. I liked kids. I lived nearby. And something in her voice 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, watched the same movies on repeat. I learned who hated peas, who needed a nightlight, who cried quietly when they missed their mom.
Mara tried to pay me. I refused every time.
My boyfriend hated it. “You’re being used,” he said. “That’s not kindness.”
I brushed it off—until exhaustion crept in, and doubt followed.
Then it ended. Mara got promoted. New city. New life. On her last day, she waved, mouthed “thank you,” and disappeared.
No goodbye. No closure.
I felt foolish—like a year of my life had vanished.
Three weeks later, an envelope arrived.
Inside were two plane tickets and a handwritten note:
“Come visit.”