He nodded, pulling out of the parking lot smoothly. “Yeah. Two. My little girl just turned three, and my son is seven. They keep us very busy.”
I smiled despite my exhaustion. “You must be a good father.”
He chuckled quietly. “I’m trying to be. Some days are better than others.”
As we drove, he asked about Lily. There was a genuine interest in his questions that made me tell him everything. I told him about Sarah leaving six months ago, about finding that note on the kitchen counter, and about the endless nights without sleep.
A baby | Source: Pexels
A baby | Source: Pexels
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I even told him about stretching my husband’s pension and about choosing between paying the electric bill and buying the larger pack of diapers.
He listened without interrupting once, his eyes on the road but his attention clearly on my words.
“You must be completely exhausted,” he said finally. “Let me help you properly. I mean, I could hire you a nanny. Someone good, someone trustworthy with excellent references.”
I shook my head quickly, almost frantically. “No, I couldn’t possibly do that. I can’t afford—”
“You wouldn’t have to pay,” he interrupted gently. “I’ll cover it. All of it. In memory of my mom. She would have wanted me to help someone who needed it.”
I refused again, though his kindness was almost too much to bear. “You’ve already done enough. More than enough. Really.”
He didn’t argue further. When we reached my apartment building, he insisted on carrying the groceries upstairs himself. I thanked him one last time at my door, certain I’d never see him again. People like him didn’t stay in the lives of people like me.
But the next afternoon, I heard my doorbell ring.
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