Phoenix Daycare Owner

Little Stars Daycare is the only Somali childcare in Phoenix.

Amina started it fifteen years ago—a response to mothers who needed to work but had no one to watch their children. Now she cares for thirty kids daily.

My nephew needs emergency care.

"His mother is in the hospital. I don't know anyone else."

"Ilaahay." She looks at the crying child, then at me. Fifty-two years old. Two hundred and forty pounds of maternal authority. Ebony skin gleaming in the Arizona heat. "Bring him inside."

She calms him in minutes.

Somali lullabies, gentle words, the magic touch of a woman who's raised hundreds. He falls asleep in her arms.

"You're amazing," I whisper.

"I'm experienced." She lays him on a small cot. "Children need consistency. Warmth. Love. Everything else follows."

"You make it look easy."

"It's not easy. It's practice." She looks at me. "How long will his mother be hospitalized?"

"A week. Maybe more."

"Then he stays here. No charge."

"I can't ask you to—"

"You're not asking. I'm telling." Her eyes are kind but firm. "In Somalia, we care for community children. That tradition doesn't die because we're in Arizona."

I visit every day.

To check on my nephew. To bring Amina coffee. To watch her work.

"You're hovering," she says one afternoon.

"I'm concerned."

"He's fine. Better than fine." She gestures to where he plays with other children. "Worry less. Trust more."

"I trust you."

"Then trust this—" She turns to face me. "You don't come here just for him. You come here for something else."

"What else?"

"You tell me."

"I was never good with children," I admit.

We're cleaning the daycare after hours. My nephew sleeps in the back.

"Never had them. Never knew how. When my sister got sick, I panicked. Didn't know how to help."

"You brought him here. That's helping."

"You're helping. I'm just... present."

"Being present is everything." She stops sweeping. "My husband left because I was too present with other people's children. He wanted my attention. I gave it to kids who needed it more."

"That's not a failing."

"He thought it was." She shrugs. "Eight years divorced. Still caring for children. Still alone at night."

"You don't have to be alone."

"Come upstairs."

The daycare has a small apartment above it. Her home for eight years.

"I don't go out. Don't date. Don't have time for myself." She unlocks the door. "The children need me. But tonight—tonight the children are sleeping. And I need something too."

"What do you need?"

"To be cared for." Her voice cracks. "Just once. To have someone take care of me."

I worship the caretaker.

Her body has comforted hundreds of children. Now I comfort her.

She gasps as I undress her—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly. The body of a woman who gives everything.

"Eight years—" She's trembling. "No one has—"

"Tonight you receive."

I lay her on her bed.

The apartment is simple—toys occasionally drift up from the daycare, drawings from children on the walls. She lives for others.

I spread her thick thighs.

Give her what she's given to so many.

"ILAAHAY!"

She screams—eight years of selflessness breaking. Her hands grip my head.

"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"

I care for her until she comes four times.

She's crying when I rise.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—"

I strip. She watches with grateful eyes.

"Subhanallah—"

"Let me take care of you."

I push inside the daycare owner.

She cries out.

"So full—" Her arms wrap around me. "Don't stop—"

I make love to the woman who nurtures everyone.

Her massive body shakes beneath me. She comes twice more.

"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Fill me—"

I release inside her.

We lie in her small bed.

Below us, children sleep peacefully.

"Your nephew is healed," she murmurs.

"So are you."

"Haa." She kisses my chest. "So am I."

Six Months Later

My sister recovered.

My nephew still goes to Little Stars.

And I still visit daily.

"Macaan," Amina moans. "My biggest kid."

The woman who cares for everyone.

Finally letting someone care for her.