I met Mara at work during a really rough period in her life, though I didn’t realize it at the time. She sat a couple of desks away from me, always looking exhausted, her phone constantly buzzing. Her smile was frequent but forced—the kind people wear to hide what’s really going on.

I eventually found out she was a single mom when I overheard her apologizing to a daycare worker over the phone. She had two young children, both under six, and their father had disappeared years earlier. Every late fee, missed shift, and sick day fell solely on her.

One Friday, as we were leaving, she hesitated by my desk. “This is awkward,” she admitted, fidgeting with her badge. “Would you ever babysit… just on Fridays? I could finally pick up overtime.”

I didn’t hesitate. I liked kids, lived nearby, and there was a fragile hope in her voice I couldn’t ignore. So every Friday for a year, her kids came to my apartment.

We made blanket forts, burned frozen pizzas, and watched the same cartoons until I could recite every line. I learned who hated peas, who needed a nightlight, and who quietly cried when missing their mom. Mara offered to pay at first, but I always refused. “I’m not a service,” I told her. “I’m just helping.”

My boyfriend disagreed. “Every week, for free? She’s using you, not thanking you,” he said repeatedly. I brushed it off, but his words lingered—especially on tired nights when I canceled plans and questioned whether he was right.

Then, abruptly, it ended. Mara got promoted and moved to a new city. Her last day was hectic, filled with meetings and hurried goodbyes. She waved at me across the office, mouthed “Thank you,” and disappeared. No proper goodbye. No closure. I felt foolish, like a year of my life had vanished without acknowledgment.

Three weeks later, an envelope arrived in my mailbox. Inside were two plane tickets and a handwritten note: “Come visit.” No explanation, just an invitation.