San Jose Daycare Mother
"She runs a home daycare in San Jose's Somali neighborhood—a thick ebony divorced woman who mothers everyone's children. When he picks up his nephew every day, she notices him noticing her. Some pickups lead to drop-offs."
Farhiya's house is always full of children.
Ten kids, ages one to five, running through her San Jose home like a small army. She manages them with effortless authority.
I pick up my nephew every afternoon.
"He's a good boy." She hands me the toddler. Fifty years old. Two hundred and forty pounds of maternal energy. Ebony skin, colorful headscarf, the tiredness of someone who never stops. "Smart too. Learning fast."
"Thanks to you."
"Thanks to his parents." She waves dismissively. "I just keep him alive while they work."
Pickup becomes the best part of my day.
Not because of my nephew—though I love him. Because of Farhiya. Her laugh. Her warmth. The way she makes chaos look easy.
"You're early again," she notices one day.
"Traffic was light."
"Traffic is never light." She's smiling. "You just like watching me wrangle toddlers."
"Maybe."
"Waas." But she doesn't look away.
"Stay for tea."
The children have gone. My nephew sleeps in his car seat.
"Just a few minutes." She pours chai. "It gets so quiet after they leave."
"You don't like quiet?"
"I don't like empty." She sits across from me. "My husband left eight years ago. The children fill the space. But at night—"
"At night what?"
"At night I remember what's missing."
"Why did he leave?"
We've been talking for an hour. My nephew still sleeps.
"He wanted a traditional wife. I wanted to work." She stirs her cold tea. "He found someone more obedient. I found ten children who need me."
"But not what you need."
"What I need is complicated." She looks at me. "I'm fifty years old. Divorced. Raising everyone's children but my own."
"You're also beautiful. And strong. And the kindest person I know."
"Wallahi?"
"Wallahi."
"Come back tonight."
My nephew is with my sister. The house is empty for the first time.
"After eight," she says. "When the echoes stop."
Her house is different at night.
No toys on the floor. No children's voices. Just Farhiya, in a soft dress, waiting.
"Eight years," she says. "Eight years of being everyone's mother. Never anyone's woman."
"You're a woman now."
"Then treat me like one."
I worship the daycare mother.
In her quiet house that's usually chaos. Her body is comfort—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly made for hugging children.
"Eight years—" She gasps as I undress her. "I've held everyone—"
"Tonight I hold you."
I lay her on her couch.
Where children usually nap. Her body is nurturing—wide hips, thick thighs, everything soft and warm.
I spread her thick thighs.
Give her what she gives others.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—eight years of giving finally receiving. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I nurture her until she releases three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—fill me—"
I strip. She watches with those mother's eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"All yours."
I push inside the daycare mother.
She cries out.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I fill the emptiness.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Complete me—"
I release inside her.
We lie on her couch.
"Tomorrow the children come back," she murmurs.
"And I'll pick up my nephew."
"Just your nephew?"
"And you." I kiss her forehead. "Always you."
One Year Later
My nephew loves "Auntie Farhiya."
So do I.
"Macaan," she moans after the children have gone. "My favorite pickup."
The daycare mother who cares for everyone.
The woman I care for most.
Full house. Full heart.