You’re pretty sure that when you agreed to babysit for Kelli Giddish, she didn’t mention the toddler’s war against pants, Jessie’s strategic manipulation skills, or Billy’s passive-aggressive existential questions at bedtime.

“Do you think God makes mistakes?” Billy asked once, her arms folded dramatically over a unicorn plush. “Because I think my dad was one.”

You blinked. “You’re seven.”

“I’m eight.”

“Even better. No, God doesn’t make mistakes. But your mom did. Once.”

From the kitchen, Amanda’s voice called, “I HEARD THAT.”

That was a Wednesday.

Wednesdays were wild.

You had a class at 8 a.m., wrestling practice at noon, and by 3:30, you were walking into Kelli's apartment where Billy had already staged a protest in the living room. She was sprawled dramatically on the floor, chanting, “Down with bedtime, down with bedtime,” while Nick screamed in the high chair and Jessie was absolutely cheating at Uno.

“Hi,” Kelli greeted you without looking up from the stack of paperwork. She handed you a bottle, a list, and a sigh. “He hasn’t pooped today. Or yesterday. So good luck.”

“Thanks,” you said. “That’s what I always dreamed of hearing at twenty.”

She snorted. “You’re still young. Wait till you’re changing diapers at two in the morning and your kid calls you ‘bro’ instead of ‘mom.’”

She walked off toward the precinct, and just like that, the circus was yours.

It wasn’t glamorous. Nick bit. Jesse argued. Billy cried when you told her the cat from Encanto wasn’t real. There were days when you sat on the couch, covered in applesauce, wondering if this was the kind of karma you earned for eating your roommate’s Pop-Tarts in freshman year.

But then—

You started noticing things.

Jessie waited until you got home from class before showing you her spelling test. Billy made a drawing of you as a “superhero babysitter” (with six arms, because obviously). Nick, pantsless as always, began crawling into your lap after his naps like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“You know,” Kelli said one night, leaning against the doorframe while you picked Legos out of your hoodie, “they don’t usually take to people like this.”

You shrugged. “Maybe they sense I’m equally unhinged.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Kelli rolled her eyes, arms crossed, a beer in hand. You noticed she always waited till they were in bed before relaxing. It was like she didn’t give herself permission until they were accounted for—fed, safe, and asleep.

You flopped onto the couch, kicking your legs over the armrest. “You should sit down before you develop permanent cop posture.”

Kelli smirked. “This is just mom posture now.”

There was a long pause. Comfortable, for once.

Then: “You’re doing a good job,” she said. “I mean it.”

You tilted your head. “Don’t get soft on me, Giddish.”

“I’m not,” she replied quickly. “I’m just saying—I don’t worry as much when you’re here.”

That was probably the highest praise Kelli Giddish was capable of. You knew her well enough now to read the things she didn’t say. Like how she appreciated you showing up on days when her shift ran late and her patience ran thinner. How she noticed when you made Billy’s favorite lunch or helped Jessie with her math or convinced Nick to wear one sock. Just one. It was progress.

You’d become more than a babysitter. A co-conspirator. An occasional mediator. An unlicensed toddler therapist.

Also, maybe... whatever you and Kelli were now. Something hovering between deeply dysfunctional friendship and... well, not that.

One evening, while you were cleaning puke off your shoe (Nick had eaten a crayon), Kelli stepped beside you with two beers.

You eyed her. “Celebrating?”

“He didn’t eat the red one. Progress.”

You clinked bottles.

Then she added, “Also, Jessie told her teacher you’re her ‘bonus adult.’ Which I think is kid-speak for ‘the one who yells less.’”

You smiled. “Good to know I’ve dethroned you.”

Kelli gave you a sideways look. “Shut up.”

You did.

Even if Nick was now somehow on top of the fridge. And Jessie was trying to sell Billy her own teddy bear.