Every Friday. Without fail. For over a year, I babysat her kids. For free.It started subtly, a plea for help when her usual arrangement fell through. She was a single mom, always looking tired, always talking about tight budgets. I saw myself in her, or at least the person I feared I might become. Struggling, alone, needing a hand. I knew what that felt like, even if my struggles were different. My own Fridays were quiet, lonely. I didn’t have a partner, no grand plans. So, I said yes. And then I kept saying yes.
Her kids were wonderful, chaotic bundles of energy. The five-year-old, a whirlwind of questions and sticky fingers. The two-year-old, a sweet, gurgling tyrant. I’d arrive right after work, my briefcase still in hand, and she’d practically melt with relief. “You’re a lifesaver,” she’d whisper, eyes shining with what I genuinely believed was gratitude. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
And I loved it. I really did. My apartment felt empty. Their noise, their laughter, their demands filled a space in me I hadn’t realized was so hollow. We’d order pizza, build elaborate blanket forts, watch movies until their eyelids drooped. I’d read them bedtime stories, tuck them in, humming lullabies I barely remembered from my own childhood. When she finally returned, usually around midnight, she’d find them fast asleep, and me, utterly exhausted but strangely fulfilled, tidying up the last of the toys.
A dog lying on the floor | Source: Midjourney
She’d always offer to pay. Always. And I’d always refuse. “It’s fine,” I’d say, waving her off. “They’re great kids. And you need the break.” I wasn’t rich, not by a long shot. But I wasn’t doing it for money. I was doing it because it felt good to help. It felt good to be needed. Her financial struggles seemed so real. She’d lament about school fees, about grocery bills, about barely making ends meet. My free help, I convinced myself, was a crucial support for her. A genuine act of kindness.
Over the months, our bond deepened. Or so I thought. She’d confide in me about work stress, about the struggles with her ex, about feeling overwhelmed. I’d listen, offer advice, share my own vulnerabilities. She became more than a coworker; she was a friend, a person I was actively, selflessly supporting. My Friday nights became sacred, dedicated to her family. I even started bringing over homemade meals, just to make her life a little easier.
She’d often say, with tears in her eyes, “I’m going to make it up to you someday. I promise. You’ve saved me.” I never expected anything, really. Maybe a nice dinner, a heartfelt card. Just knowing I made a difference was enough.
An old lady in bed | Source: Midjourney
One Friday, after I’d put the kids to bed and was waiting for her return, she called. “Can you stay a bit longer tonight? Something important came up.” Her voice was tight. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. And I have something for you.” My heart fluttered a little. Was this it? The ‘making it up to me’ moment? I stayed, of course. Midnight stretched into one, then two, then three in the morning. I slept on her sofa, waking to the sound of her key in the lock just before dawn.
She looked tired, but there was an intensity in her eyes I hadn’t seen before. She sat beside me on the sofa. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, handing me a thick, sealed envelope. “I know it’s not enough, but it’s a start.”
Inside, nestled between crisp dollar bills, was a note. “For everything. For seeing me through. For being my rock. I could never repay you fully, but please, take this. You deserve it more than anyone.”
A dog | Source: Midjourney
My hands trembled as I counted the money. It was five thousand dollars. Five thousand dollars. For me. I stared at her, tears blurring my vision. I WAS STUNNED. I FELT A WAVE OF EMOTION SO POWERFUL IT TOOK MY BREATH AWAY. This wasn’t just money; it was validation. It was recognition. It was proof that my kindness had been seen, truly valued. She understood. She finally understood the depth of my sacrifice. I hugged her tightly, sobbing into her shoulder. “Thank you,” I choked out. “Thank you so much.” She just held me, stroking my hair. “You earned it,” she murmured. “Every cent.”
The money helped so much. I paid off a nagging credit card, bought myself some new tires for my ancient car, finally splurged on a new winter coat. I felt a renewed sense of purpose, a deep satisfaction in knowing my selflessness had been rewarded.
Life continued. Fridays came, and I kept babysitting. She kept insisting she’d “pay me back the rest.” I didn’t press her. I trusted her. She was good, I believed.
Then came the day everything shattered.
A dog | Source: Midjourney
I was at the office. She was out sick, and her phone was ringing non-stop. Our boss asked me to check her desk for an urgent file. It was a mess, as usual. As I sifted through papers, looking for the client report, a small, official-looking document slipped out from under a stack of magazines. It was from a legal firm. My eyes caught on a highlighted section.
“Childcare Stipend Agreement.”
My heart started to pound. I picked it up, my hands clammy. It was an amendment to her divorce settlement. Dated before I even started babysitting for her. It stipulated that her ex-husband was required to pay her $1,500 every single month specifically for childcare costs. A separate fund, directly deposited into her account. Every. Single. Month.
I reread the dates. The payments had been consistent, unbroken, for over two years. Meaning, she had been receiving $1,500 every month for childcare the entire time I had been watching her kids for free. The entire time she was telling me about her struggles, her empty wallet, her desperation. The entire time I was giving up my own precious Fridays, my own limited funds, my own emotional energy.
An old lady in bed | Source: Midjourney
I did the math in my head. Fifteen hundred dollars a month for a year and a bit… that was well over EIGHTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. And the “gift” she had given me? Five thousand dollars. A fraction. A pathetic, insulting fraction of the money she had already received specifically to pay for the very service I was providing for free.
IT HIT ME LIKE A PHYSICAL BLOW. SHE WASN’T STRUGGLING. SHE WASN’T GRATEFUL. SHE WAS A MANIPULATOR. A LIAR. SHE HAD BEEN POCKETING THAT MONEY, ALL OF IT, WHILE I WILLINGLY, LOVINGLY, GAVE HER MY TIME AND MY HEART FOR NOTHING.
My vision tunneled. The air left my lungs. The “kindness” I thought I’d given, the “gratitude” I thought I’d received—it was all a performance. She didn’t pay me out of her generosity. She paid me a fraction of other people’s money that was meant for her children, just to keep me quiet, just to make me think I was valued, while she continued to scam her ex-husband and exploit my willingness to help.
SHE DIDN’T NEED MY KINDNESS; SHE USED IT.
A dog lying beside a bed | Source: Midjourney
The kids. My heart ached for them. They were innocent. But their mother… The warmth, the connection, the feeling of being needed, it all curdled into disgust. The five thousand dollars in my bank account suddenly felt like dirty money, a bribe to keep me complicit in her deception, an insult to every single moment I had spent loving her children.
I felt sick. My view of kindness didn’t just change; it shattered into a million pieces. I saw not generosity in her, but a calculated, cold-hearted opportunism. And in myself? I saw a fool. A naive, desperate fool, so eager to give, so desperate to feel needed, that I couldn’t see the wolves in sheep’s clothing. I still go over on Fridays, the kids still smile. But the joy is gone, replaced by a bitter, hollow ache. I look at her now, and all I see is a thief, and a profound, heartbreaking betrayal.
