Sacramento Social Worker
"She helps Somali families navigate California's welfare system—a thick ebony widow who cuts through bureaucracy. When he needs help for his elderly aunt, she goes above and beyond. Some assistance is off the books."
Faduma fights the system from inside it.
Twenty-five years with California Social Services. She knows every form, every loophole, every way to help Somali families who don't understand American bureaucracy.
My aunt needs benefits.
"Medicare, SSI, or Medi-Cal?" She pulls out forms. Fifty-six years old. Two hundred and fifty pounds of bureaucratic warfare. Ebony skin, government badge, the tiredness of someone who cares too much.
"I don't know. She's confused, her English is limited—"
"That's why I'm here." She starts writing. "Tell me everything."
She works late on my aunt's case.
Calls I don't expect. Updates I didn't ask for. She treats my aunt like family.
"Why do you care so much?" I ask her one evening.
"Because no one cared for my mother." She looks up from her desk. "She died in 2003. Needed benefits she qualified for. But she didn't know how to ask, and no one helped her."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Be grateful your aunt has you." Her eyes are tired. "And me."
My aunt gets approved.
Full benefits, faster than expected. Faduma made it happen.
"How can I repay you?"
"Do something for someone else." She files the paperwork. "That's how it works. Help passes forward."
"Can I buy you dinner, at least?"
"Waas." She shakes her head. "I'm a social worker. Dinner with clients is—"
"My aunt is your client. I'm not."
She pauses.
"Italian?"
Dinner becomes regular.
Once a week, then twice. We talk about work, about Somalia, about the weight of caring for everyone.
"You never talk about yourself," I tell her one night.
"Because myself is boring." She pushes pasta around her plate. "Work, home, sleep. Repeat."
"That's not living."
"It's surviving." She looks at me. "My husband died twelve years ago. I decided surviving was enough."
"What if it isn't?"
"Come to my house."
Her invitation surprises me. Surprises her too, judging by her face.
"I've never invited anyone home since—" She stops. "But you're not just anyone."
"What am I?"
"Someone who sees me. Not the social worker. Me."
Her house is full of case files.
Work everywhere. The home of someone who's forgotten how to have a home.
"Twelve years," she says. "Twelve years of helping everyone. Coming home to this."
"You deserve more."
"I don't know what more looks like anymore."
"Let me show you."
I worship the social worker.
Her body has carried a thousand families' burdens. Now I lighten her load.
"Twelve years—" She gasps as I undress her. "I've helped everyone—"
"Tonight I help you."
I lay her on her bed.
Clear space among the case files. Her body is a system I want to navigate.
I spread her thick thighs.
Provide services.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—twelve years of professional distance breaking. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I process her needs until she's satisfied. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—fill my case—"
I strip. She watches with those tired, hopeful eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"Full benefits."
I push inside the social worker.
She cries out.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I give her everything she's been denied.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Complete my file—"
I release inside her.
We lie among scattered paperwork.
"My aunt is grateful," I tell her.
"Your aunt is a sweetheart."
"So are you."
"Waas." But she's smiling. "No one has called me that in twelve years."
One Year Later
My aunt is thriving.
And so is Faduma.
"Macaan," she moans. "My best case."
The social worker who helps everyone.
The woman I finally helped back.
Case closed. Love open.