THE NANNY

Kayla's POV

My life was a constant balancing act. College by day, waitressing by night—I was always running, always tired, and always worried about my mom. She had been diagnosed with cancer earlier that year, and the treatments had taken more from her than I ever thought possible. Her energy, her smile, her sharp eyesight—they were all slipping away, leaving me to pick up the pieces.

I worked at a small, noisy diner just off campus. The air there always smelled like burnt coffee and grease, and the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above us. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was steady, and I needed steady. Every dollar I made went toward tuition, groceries, or medical bills.

I remember one night in November. It was freezing outside, and the diner was packed with the usual mix of students cramming for finals and late-night regulars looking for something warm. I was running on fumes, wiping down tables and refilling coffee cups while keeping an eye on the clock. I had a philosophy paper due the next morning, and the blank page waiting for me felt like a ticking time bomb.

That’s when he came in—a man, maybe late thirties, with tired eyes and hands that trembled just enough to notice. He slid into a booth by the door and ordered a black coffee. Something about him put me on edge, though I couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the way his gaze darted around the room, or how he clutched his wallet like it might slip away.

I tried not to stare as I cleared plates from another table, but I couldn’t ignore him. When he finished his coffee and stood, I thought he was leaving. Instead, he grabbed the tip jar from the counter and bolted for the door.

For a second, I froze. Then instinct took over.

“Hey! Stop!” I shouted, my voice louder than I meant it to be.

He hesitated, just for a moment, before turning back to face me. His hand tightened around the jar, and I could see the conflict written all over his face. He wasn’t just trying to steal—he was desperate. I recognized that look. I’d seen it in the mirror too many times.

“Please,” I said, my voice softer now. I stepped closer, careful not to scare him off. “I get it. I really do. But I need that money. My mom—” My throat tightened, but I forced the words out. “She’s sick. That money helps me take care of her.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, without a word, he placed the jar back on the counter and walked out into the cold.

I stood there, my heart pounding, watching the door swing shut behind him. I should’ve felt angry or relieved, but all I felt was tired. Tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of everything.

I never told anyone about that night. It became just another memory tucked away, like so many others, a reminder of how fragile everything was. Looking back now, I realize that moment wasn’t just about the money. It was about the choices we make when we’re desperate and the humanity we can still find in ourselves, even in the hardest times.

I didn’t know it then, but that night wasn’t the end of the story. It was just the beginning.

My boss wasn't really helping issues at all, he'd made working tougher than it should be and won't even be considerate. I remember asking him for a loan promising to work as long as the loan expired, instead he made mockery of I and my ill mom.

"What was your mom thinking when she married a gambler?"

These were always his words each time I asked him for help.

I got home that night to meet my mom making dinner. Though she was sick, she made it her point of duty to make my dinner before I get back home. She's indeed a strong woman. She's what I always toast her with "an epitome of beauty" slim and slender, blue eyes which turned brown because of her illness. She had a very long hair which she made me cut now because according to her, each morning I combed her hair after bathing her, she felt it was a burden to me, combing hairs that won't stop falling off.

In all the physical appearance my mom had, I was a bit different from her. I had a curve, a killer one!

I had blue pearl eyes, nineteen with a slim and a curvy slender waist I always cover up with my baggy and big clothes.

I slowly walked around our small apartment that can be described as modest and often cramped to drop my bags. The space worn but cared for, showing signs of daily struggle and resilience. The walls marked and chipped, with simple, mismatched furniture arranged to maximize limited space.

The kitchen compact, with basic appliances that are old with a few functional.

"Mom, am home" I said as I hugged her from behind and yes! She's deaf too, she only gave me a reassuring smile but I saw pains and penury in her smile. She didn't say anything but pointed to the pan cakes she made.I nodded and took her to her room to lay her to sleep.

As I sat down in my tiny room to eat, I knew I was drowning. College classes, late-night shifts at the diner, my dad's debtors calling and the constant worry over my mom’s health were pushing me to my breaking point. The bills were piling up, and I couldn’t find a way to stretch my meager income far enough to cover everything. Desperation clung to me like a second skin.

After my manager, Tom, rejected my plea for a loan countless times, I vowed to never ask him for anything again. But that didn’t stop him from trying to worm his way into my business.

One slow afternoon at the diner, while I was refilling the sugar dispensers, Tom sidled up to me, his smirk firmly in place.

“You know,” he began, leaning on the counter as if we were old friends, “there’s a way you could solve all your problems.”

I didn’t look up. “Not interested.”

“You haven’t even heard what I’m about to say.”

“I don’t need to.”

But he didn’t stop. “There’s this guy—Gerald Thompson. Young, rich, and generous, if you play your cards right. Word is, he’s looking for a surrogate. Pays more than you’d make here in five years.”

That got my attention, though I didn’t let it show. Gerald Thompson. The name sounded familiar, probably from some headline or gossip I’d overheard. A billionaire who’d made his fortune young and was apparently eager to start a family—just not in the traditional way.

“I’m not interested,” I said again, though my voice wavered slightly.

Tom chuckled. “Think about it, Kayla. You could pay off your mom’s medical bills, settle your dad's debts and cover your tuition, maybe even get out of this dump. It’s not like you’re gonna find a better opportunity working these shifts.”

His words stung because they carried a grain of truth. I was stuck in a cycle I couldn’t break, and the thought of a solution—however unconventional—was tempting. But there was something about Tom’s tone, the way he dangled the idea like bait, that made me want to reject it outright.

Still, later that night, as I lay in bed staring at the cracked ceiling of my tiny apartment, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Would it really be so wrong? Could I do something like that, knowing it might be the only way to save my mom and get us out of this dump of a life.

The idea of Gerald Thompson’s wealth solving all my problems felt like a lifeline—and a trap, all at once. I didn’t know much about him, but the prospect of entering someone else’s world, with their rules and expectations, scared me almost as much as staying trapped in mine.

I didn’t make a decision that night. But the seed had been planted, and it would grow, twisting its way through my thoughts until I could no longer ignore it.