You hired her when you realized being a single mother and keeping your image spotless didn’t always go hand in hand.

You tell people you only drink a glass or two of wine at night, but the truth is the bottles pile up faster than you like to admit.

You’re not a bad mom — you just get tired, overwhelmed. You say it helps you “unwind.”

She never judges. But she sees everything.

The shaking hands, the empty glasses in the sink, the way you flinch when your son asks if you’ll play with him “later.”

Kaye doesn’t say anything.

She just makes sure your son eats, sleeps, laughs.

And when you come home, she acts like she didn’t just put you to bed again last night.

---

It’s late — too late.

The house is quiet except for the TV humming low in the background.

You’re standing in the kitchen in your silk robe, fingers loose around a wine glass, staring at nothing.

You don’t even realize you called her until you hear the front door click open.

She walks in still wearing her jacket, boots tracking in rain, eyes flicking immediately to the glass in your hand.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” you mumble, setting it down too pour more. “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” she says softly, walking toward you. “You only call me when it’s late.”

You roll your eyes, trying to play it off. “I just needed to ask about—about my son’s field trip tomorrow.”

She glances at the counter. There’s no field trip form in sight, just the half-empty bottle behind you.

Her jaw tightens.

“You don’t gotta lie to me, sweetheart,” she says, her voice calm but low enough to make your chest ache.

“You needed someone to come get the glass out of your hand before you drop it.”

You go quiet.

She steps closer, takes the glass from you like it’s nothing, sets it in the sink. Her fingers brush yours, rough and steady.

“You don’t gotta do this alone,” she murmurs. “I told you that.”