One day, she asked me to watch the kids while she worked.

“I’ll watch my grandson,” I said, “but you’ll have to pay me if I’m babysitting your other two.”

The next day, when I arrived at her house, my jaw dropped.

The living room was nearly empty. No couch. No TV. Just a mattress pushed up against the wall and a folded-up stroller in the corner. The older kids were sitting cross-legged on the floor, quietly coloring, while the baby lay in a laundry basket padded with blankets.

I froze. “Where’s your furniture?”

She didn’t look up from buttoning her uniform shirt. “Sold it. Rent was due.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. I thought they were doing okay. My son, Rowan, hadn’t mentioned anything about money problems. He worked in construction, good with his hands, dependable. She worked nights at a diner. I figured they were scraping by, but this… this was more than scraping.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked, quieter now.

She shrugged, finally meeting my eyes. Her face looked pale and thinner than the last time I’d seen her. “We didn’t want to worry anyone.”

I nodded slowly, my pride feeling heavier than ever. I’d drawn a line in the sand the day before without knowing the full picture. I told her I wouldn’t watch her other kids unless I was paid—and now I felt like the worst kind of person.

Still, I picked up my grandson from the laundry basket, holding him a little tighter than usual. The two older kids looked up at me, eyes unsure. Like they’d already figured out who cared about them and who didn’t.

“I’ll take care of all three,” I said, setting the baby on my hip. “Don’t worry about the money.”

She gave me a tired smile, and before she walked out, she paused at the door. “Thank you, Martha.”