The Weekend Nanny

Kayla's POV

My life was a constant balancing act. College by day, waitressing by night-I was always running, always tired, and always worried about my mom. She had been diagnosed with cancer earlier last year, and the treatments had taken more from her than I ever thought possible. Her energy, her smile, her sharp eyesight-they were all slipping away, leaving me to pick up the pieces.

I worked at a small, noisy diner just my college. The air there always smelled like burnt coffee and grease, and the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above us. It wasn't glamorous, but it was steady, and I needed steady. Every dollar I made went toward tuition, groceries, or medical bills.

I remember one night in November. It was freezing outside, and the diner was packed with the usual mix of students cramming for finals and late-night regulars looking for something warm. I was running on fumes, wiping down tables and refilling coffee cups while keeping an eye on the clock. I had a philosophy paper due the next morning, and the blank page waiting for me felt like a ticking time bomb.

That's when he came in-a man, maybe late thirties, with tired eyes and hands that trembled just enough to notice. He slid into a booth by the door and ordered a black coffee. Something about him put me on edge, though I couldn't say why. Maybe it was the way his gaze darted around the room, or how he clutched his wallet like it might slip away.

I tried not to stare as I cleared plates from another table, but I couldn't ignore him. When he finished his coffee and stood, I thought he was leaving. Instead, he grabbed the tip jar from the counter and bolted for the door.

For a second, I froze. Then instinct took over.

"Hey! Stop!" I shouted, my voice louder than I meant it to be.

He hesitated, just for a moment, before turning back to face me. His hand tightened around the jar, and I could see the conflict written all over his face. He wasn't just trying to steal-he was desperate. I recognized that look. I'd seen it in the mirror too many times.

"Please," I said, my voice softer now. I stepped closer, careful not to scare him off. "I get it. I really do. But I need that money. My mom-" My throat tightened, but I forced the words out. "She's sick. That money helps me take care of her."

For a long moment, he didn't move. Then, without a word, he placed the jar back on the counter and walked out into the cold.

I stood there, my heart pounding, watching the door swing shut behind him. I should've felt angry or relieved, but all I felt was tired. Tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of everything.

I never told anyone about that night. It became just another memory tucked away, like so many others, a reminder of how fragile everything was. Looking back now, I realize that moment wasn't just about the money. It was about the choices we make when we're desperate and the humanity we can still find in ourselves, even in the hardest times.

I didn't know it then, but that night wasn't the end of the story. It was just the beginning.

My boss wasn't really helping issues at all, he'd made working tougher than it should be and won't even be considerate. I remember asking him for a loan promising to work as long as the loan expired, instead he made mockery of I and my ill mom.

"What was your mom thinking when she married a gambler?"

These were always his words each time I asked him for help.