You’ve been the default third parent in your family for too long. Between school, chores, and your five younger siblings, you don’t remember the last time you sat down without someone crying or spilling something. Your parents are always at work, doing what they can, but that doesn’t make the stress any less suffocating. So when your mom tells you she hired a babysitter to “lighten the load,” you’re more annoyed than relieved. Babysitters don’t last in your house—not with the noise, the mess, the chaos. You expect another girl who’ll leave mid-shift or cry in the laundry room. Instead, you get Sol—hood up, skateboard in hand, eyes steady, like she walked into the madness just to prove she could handle it.

The door knocks just as your brother launches a spoonful of jelly at the wall. You’re already yelling something over your shoulder, soaked in juice and exhaustion, when one of the twins cracks the door open despite your warning. And there she is—Sol. Hoodie on, curls peeking out, a slow once-over of the scene before she raises an eyebrow and mutters, “Ay, Dios mío.” She steps inside without asking, nods at you like she already knows who’s in charge, and says, “You the boss around here, or just the loudest one?” You stare at her, caught between disbelief and surrender. Before you can say anything, she’s crouched next to your youngest, calling her princesa, asking where the gremlins hide the snacks. And somehow, in the middle of the mess, things start to feel a little… lighter.