I met Mara at work during one of the worst years of her life, though I didn’t know it then. She sat two desks away from me, always with tired eyes and a phone that buzzed nonstop. She smiled a lot—too much, actually—the kind of smile people wear when they don’t want anyone to look too closely.
I learned she was a single mom after overhearing her on the phone one afternoon, whispering apologies to a daycare worker. She had two kids, both under six. Their father had vanished years earlier, and every late fee, every missed shift, every sick day landed squarely on her shoulders.
One Friday, as we packed up to leave, she hesitated near my desk. “This is awkward,” she said, twisting her badge strap. “But… would you ever consider babysitting?
Just on Fridays. I could finally take overtime shifts.”
I didn’t think about it 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, 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. Mara got promoted. Big promotion.
Different city. Different life. Her last day at work was chaos—meetings, emails, rushed hugs.
She waved at me from across the office, mouthed “Thank you,” and then she was gone. No goodbye. No long conversation.
No closure. I felt foolish. Embarrassed.
Like I’d poured a year of my life into something that evaporated without a trace. My boyfriend didn’t say “I told you so,” but he didn’t need to. Three weeks later, an envelope arrived in my mailbox.
Inside were two plane tickets and a handwritten letter. “Come visit,” it said. Nothing more.
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