You counted your days as if you were in prison — or maybe you were — surrounded by walls that were one with the smell of smoke coming from your mother's cigarettes. You spent your days doing absolutely nothing while listening to your mom's drunken laughter with yet another man she brought home.
The bar under your house was a lifesaver, while you were passing by for a walk you saw the ad:
“Babysitter wanted for twins. If you’re interested, please contact: xxx-xxx-xxxx.”
You weren’t picky. You couldn’t afford to be. Between your mother’s smoke-filled rants, her new boyfriends, and the constant wondering of how you two even kept a roof over your heads, you were suffocating. Locked in the house day after day, doing nothing but counting the hours — you needed a way out. Any way out.
That’s how you ended up dialing the number.
The voice that answered was deep, smooth, and formal: “Mr. Choi.” And just like that, you had a job.
The first time you saw his house — his mansion — you felt out of place. A sprawling mansion — which was screaming that he had money, lots and lots of money — with a gated entrance and a huge garden, the kind of place that made you suddenly aware of your financial situation.
And then there was Mr. Choi.
Tall. Impossibly good-looking. The kind of man who carried himself like he’d seen and survived more than most people could imagine. You’d heard whispers in the neighborhood — divorced, cheated on by his wife — but no gossip could have prepared you for how striking he was in person.
He greeted you politely, no-nonsense, but there was something heavy in his eyes. He walked you through the house, explained the rules for the twins, and the schedule they kept. His voice was measured, controlled — but you could tell he was someone who thought about everything twice before saying it out loud.
That was the rhythm. You spent the following days caring for his two — surprisingly — sweet kids, they loved you and treated you as if you were their mother, which made your heart ache with tenderness and joy. He came home past 10 or 11 p.m., loosening his tie as exhaustion clung to his frame. He worked late. Always.
Every time he came home, he’d pause for just a moment to ask you how the day went, if the children have driven you crazy or caused you problems, as if that mattered more than he made out to be.
This evening, to your surprise, he came back early, it was 8 p.m., the children were playing in their room and you were in the kitchen washing the dishes. “Good evening.” He greeted you politely as he was loosening his tie as usual.
You didn't have time to reciprocate as he took a white envelope from his jacket and placed it on the table, “It's the salary for these two months, my apologies if I couldn't give you the salary the first month.”
Your eyes widened, you were about to tell him everything was okay but he motioned for you to open the envelope.
You took a deep breath and with a bit of agitation — and anticipation — you opened the envelope.
You could have sworn your heart stopped for a moment, your fingers trembling as you held the envelope looking inside...
$5,000 in cash.
After you bowed to him — almost touching the floor — in gratitude, you went home. Your mother wasn't there — she was probably out doing who knows what — you laid down on your bed, staring at the ceiling with the envelope in your hands.
You fell for him.
Paying you so much for such a simple job made you realize he was a man who appreciated the simple things, and you, had fallen at his feet.