you said get a babysitter.

you saw me drowning.
i posted —
paid help needed asap.
because no one would just help.
a hour here or there.
consistently.
while i cleaned toilets.
or navigated socratic method.
clawed my way out.

not even friends
who were “giving me all they had.”

aka: free outdoor gear from their job
while i couldn’t afford groceries.

you pop in:
“i just left my baby daddy. i’m free now. i can babysit.”

i was like; please let this be my miracle.
i’ll share anything i have;
just please help me survive this.

i asked you.
straight up.

can we be casual?
you’ve got a kid the same age.
they’re already coming too.
i’m not asking for favors.

i said:
“i can offer a lot—
and look, i’ll still pay you.
just… on the hours i’m not making money,
can you be reasonable?
not a calculator?”

i wasn’t asking for free labor.
i was asking for mercy.

then said:
“i can take on extra jobs off schedule—
i’ll go clean entire houses
alone with no sleep
and split the profits with you.”

so you’re still paid well.

you’re like “cool”
$200 pay days in a couple hours?
to stay back with my kid x 2?
with your shit?
dope.

but from the jump. it was—

not: baby, you’re dying. let’s trade.
not: let me show up for another single mom who’s clearly fucking breaking.
not: let’s build something.

just:
“i’m paid labor. i’m bringing my kid…how many hours can i get a week?

also yeah — we’re totally cool with:
-no cleaning
-no actual cooking
-getting paid fat when you clean houses solo
-eating your food,
-asking for your informal (unpaid)
extended + complex legal views,
-smoking your weed,
-sleeping over,
-creating extra laundry,
-making this insanely casual,
-trauma-bonding,
-extracting emotional labor,
-pretty much me getting paid to be a mom
-in your house
-with your shit
and just...
+keep yours alive
on the side.”

i said thank you.
so much.
i’m drowning.
this is everything to me.

…

day one:
you cancel.
you’re sick.

i say:
“hey, just so you know…
last time i got sick,
i had no one.
i was trapped for two weeks —
barely able to walk the dog,
change my kid’s diaper,
work,
pay bills,
not flunk law school.
i can’t get sick again.
it will break me.”

hint.
fucking.
hint bro.
damn.

day two:
you show up.
totally fine.
like yesterday never happened.
24 hour thing.
awesome.

i try to go to walmart —
to get weed, food,
return ink:
literally anything productive
so i can justify paying you.

i go to get in to my car—
i am blocked in.
someone’s parked illegally in the lot.
i try everything.
nothing works.

tears.
actual tears.
streaming down my face.
this was my one errand.
my one moment of freedom.
since february.
not in class.
gone.

i text you:
“i can’t go.”

you:
“no worries.”

i walk back inside.
you say:
“great, you’re back!
let me trauma dump now.”

we go for hours.
most the night.
mostly me listening.
reviewing the screenshots.
eating pizza,
feeding the kids—
i’m not even mad.
i’m happy to not be alone.
i’m happy to have a friend.

you monologue your custody issue,
your living situation,
honestly;
interrupt me every sentence,
ask me for more low-key legal advice.
really want me to help you figure this out*
we smoke my weed.
we eat my food.
your kid uses my kid’s toys, snacks, everything.
idgaf.
i have a friend.
you crash.

i’m fine with it.
so i accomplished less than nothing.
so what if tonight cost me resources
i don’t have to spare—
energy i didn’t get to recharge,
i’m building something.
this is the vibe.
this is sisterhood.

day three:

i wake up.
late for work.
move out cleaning.
they’re brutal.
you’re still in my house.

i ask:
“hey… you want to just stay with ryan while you’re here?”

you:
“yeah, i have plans… but yeah.”

ok i’ll hurry.
eat whatever.
do whatever.
use whatever.
sit on your phone.
at least i just
don’t have to carry her today.

i go to work.
i’m arm deep in a bathroom—
dripping sweat,
rushing.
you text me
from my couch:
“i’m breastfeeding.
i’m dehydrated.
can i have one of your gatorades?”
(my kid is asleep)

!!!!!!!
(let me explain)
bro.
bro.
broooooooooooo.
this honest cut through me.
i almost broke right there.
it was so fucking little.
so simple.
my literal only tiny teeny boundary.
(honestly i knew i was fucked from this moment.)
i offered you literally everything i had:
shower.
use my clothes.
eat.
drink.
vape on the porch.
do whatever.
but.
the one thing —
the one thing —
i asked you to please not to touch.
(joking, but serious; yo we are poor.)
in a separate fridge.
i told you.
i can barely afford air,
but i need these to feel alive.
i barely make it through most days.
(living on cold cereal, no sleep, coffee)
you nodded.

and then waited
until i was gone
first time i left.
so you could ask via text.

so you wouldn’t have to
look me in the face
when you did it anyway.

cool bro.
this hourly keeps going up.

i live on like nothing
but i grew up poor.
so i can fake it

but—

babe!!!!!
i could’ve just taken her with me.
left her in the carseat—next to me.
she naps sometimes.
done the clean.
my own condo would have stayed sanitized.
no two dozen toys for me to clean up after work—
no endless laundry from the bedding.
kept my weed.
my food.
(my full 12 pack of gatorade i traded for my soul)
my time.
my fucking sanity.

but no.
(maybe at least she won’t be a calculator about these “hours”…)

i come home—
sweaty.
exhausted.
responding to legal HOA emails,
my kid’s already like
WHAT’S UP BITCH
trying not to scream.
you’re still on my couch.
still talking.
still trauma-dumping.
still asking for free advice
as i stare at my screen.

and i say—
bro.
besides working
to now split the pay three ways
(between my cleaning teammate, you, and our toddler’s snack budget + supplies),
i made nothing.
i actually lost money.

i accomplished nothing.
and you rushed me.

i asked you for the bill:
2 hours for my failed errands / turned free emotional and legal aid, snacks, weed, the vibe til 3am: $40. (i owe, obviously)
4 hours to watch our kids while i cleaned: $80.

$120.

ok.
got it.

and then you say it:
“i love it here. we should live together.”

i blink.
maybe this is it.
maybe if you stay, we’ll survive.

and you won’t bill me per hour—
everyone told me i needed to find someone to help.

so i said.
ok sam.
you are slow dying.
be open.

i show you the loft.
you ask about storage
i say i have a garage.
oh free storage.
you go:
“wow. that’d save me $300 a month.”
i say:
“great. just help me survive.”

i say:
we can put the girls in the same room.
you can loft the office area for yourself.
we can make it cute. private.
make it work—
it’s not like i’m charging you half.

you say:
“if i have to loft it…
i just don’t think that’s enough space.”

not: thank you.
just:
“can i get your daughter’s room instead?”
the one i just built from scratch.
for the third time in one year.
aka: the same one you just openly admitted
to watching me create at 2am via instagram story?
by myself?

babe—you didn’t even send a rent offer.
ok. fuck. continue.

day four:

(you’re too busy to stop by so i could grab weed.
maybe on a paid day you said;
you’ll come early.
maybe…
thanks for smoking me up tho xoxo)

day five:

bitch and then.
your virus hits me.

the final kill shot in this saga.

alone with a toddler and a dog.
and law school.
down food.
down moral clarity.

i honestly cried.

and then
i got chills.
fever.
head pounding.
couldn’t sleep.
couldn’t breathe.

and still —
i showed up to class.
because i have to,
barely conscious
definitely absorbing nothing.

just a hot $520 a pop
via tuition—
to be so sick you can’t focus.

(same one you
already asked me
to summarize in detail
customized to you
for free
so you could text
your baby daddy
legal threats.)

class = 2.5 hours.
i end up not needing extra time
because i could barely move.
just dying on the couch
while you talk to me.

you bill me $80

**i said ok cool; i’ll have to work (while sick) tomorrow…………
with my kid on my back…..
to pay you for essentially
missing my law class today.
so you can chill.
and make money.

cool. this is a deeeeeeaaaaalllllll.
miracle. fucking fuck fuck.

+ noted. nothing i’ve contributed counts towards that hourly bottom line on the invoice.

(fucking fuuuuuuuuuucccccckkkkkk
i already can’t pay tuition
and am struggling with the electricity bill)

SICK.

and the bullet to the brain:
you didn’t even say sorry.
not; let me do half this day for free—
not; i’ll come tomorrow with meds and help

i’m like.
sam; you dumb fuck—
you did it again.
fell in to the
pay-per-friend model
again.
where they think they’re an employee—
but really, they just want to charge you,
one-sided. for a bad friendship—
no benefits.

so.

i finally ask:
“hey, would you be open to trading a few hours?

you:
“i didn’t sign up for unpaid labor.”

girl.

neither did i.