My mother is seventy-three, and she lives with a kind of discipline that feels rare now. Every morning, she wakes early, brews coffee in her chipped old pot, and records every expense in a small black notebook, as if keeping order is a personal responsibility she refuses to surrender.
So when our neighbor Claire—always rushed, always overwhelmed—asked if my mom could watch her three-year-old a few afternoons a week for modest pay, I was surprised but not shocked when my mother agreed.
She prepared snacks, laid out crayons, and gave that child the same patience she once gave her own.
For the first week, everything went smoothly. Then the payments stopped. “I’ll get you next week,” Claire kept saying. Weeks passed.
When my mother finally mentioned it—gently, assuming it was a simple oversight—Claire’s response cut deeper than anger ever could. She said my mother should have asked for paperwork and added that she “didn’t really have anything else to do.” My mom didn’t argue.
She came home, opened her notebook, and crossed out the expected payments, one by one. When she admitted she felt foolish for trusting someone, I realized it was no longer about money.
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