I was getting ready for my sister’s birthday dinner when my daughter-in-law called me in tears. She said there was an emergency and begged me to babysit the kids. I canceled my plans and rushed over to their house. She thanked me and quickly left. An hour later, I was sitting on the couch with cartoons playing in the background and a toddler drooling on my shoulder when my phone buzzed.
It was a photo message from my sister—everyone around a cake, smiling, laughing. I tried to ignore the tiny sting in my chest. Of course, this was more important. Family emergencies don’t wait, and the kids needed someone. I loved my grandbabies, even if my knee ached from crouching earlier to tie tiny shoes.
By midnight, I started to worry. I called my son. Straight to voicemail. That was unusual.
Around 1:30 AM, the front door finally creaked open. She came in quietly, tiptoeing like a teenager past curfew. I sat up, startled, and she froze when she saw me.
“Oh! You’re still here,” she said, voice light, a little too casual.
“Of course I’m still here,” I said. “I was watching the kids. You didn’t text back. I was worried.”
She gave me a sheepish smile and said something about her phone dying. Then, with the kind of awkwardness you only see when someone’s been caught, she added, “It wasn’t really an emergency-emergency. I just needed some space. I… went out.”
I stared at her. “You went out?”
Continue reading…
