The Somali Daycare Provider

Fartun's apartment is chaos.

Twelve children. Ages two to eight. Running, screaming, playing, crying. She moves through them like a ship through waves—calm, steady, unstoppable.

My sister is desperate.

"The regular sitter cancelled. I have a job interview. Please, Fartun."

"Haa, haa." Yes, yes. Fartun takes my nephew. "Go. I have him."

My sister leaves. I stay to help.

"You're good with them," Fartun says later.

The children are napping. The apartment is quiet. We sit in her kitchen drinking chai.

"I like kids."

"Most men run from them." She studies me over her cup. "Why are you still here?"

"My sister asked me to pick him up."

"She texted an hour ago. Said she's running late." Fartun sets down her cup. "You stayed because you wanted to."

"I stayed because—" I pause. "I don't know why I stayed."

"I do." She stands. "Come."

She leads me to a back room.

Away from the children. Away from everything.

"This is my space," she says. "Where I come when the noise is too much."

The room is small. A bed, a dresser, candles.

"Fartun—"

"I'm forty-nine years old. Divorced. Three children of my own, all grown. I spend every day caring for other people's kids." She turns to face me. "At night, I want someone to care for me."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you stayed." She steps closer. "Because you helped. Because you looked at me like I was more than a babysitter."

"You are more."

"Then show me."

She undresses without shame.

Forty-nine years old. Two hundred and thirty-five pounds. Ebony skin that gleams in the candlelight. Her body is soft—breasts heavy, belly round, hips wide. The body of a woman who has given everything to others.

"You're beautiful," I tell her.

"You're crazy." But she's smiling. "I haven't been touched in five years. Since my divorce."

"That's criminal."

"That's life." She pulls me close. "Make me forget about life. Just for tonight."

I worship the caretaker.

My mouth on her breasts—heavy, maternal, aching to be touched. She moans as I suckle.

"Like a baby—" She gasps. "But you're not a baby—"

"No. I'm not."

I move lower.

I kneel between her thick thighs.

She's wet already. Has been wet, maybe, since I stayed to help with the children.

"Alla—" She gasps as my tongue finds her. "No one has—five years—"

I lick her slowly. Tenderly. The way she tends to others.

"Coming—" She's shaking. "Ilaahay—"

She floods my mouth.

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

I strip. She watches with hungry eyes.

"Mashallah—" Her hand wraps around me. "You're so—"

"I'm yours. Tonight. I'm yours."

I lay her down on the bed.

I push inside the daycare provider.

She wails—five years of need releasing.

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

I make love to her.

Slowly at first. Tenderly. She deserves tenderness. Then harder, as she demands it. Her massive body rocks beneath me. She comes twice, three times.

"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Inside me—please—"

I fill her.

We lie tangled together.

Through the walls, we can hear a child stirring. Naptime is almost over.

"I have to—" She starts to rise.

"I'll help." I kiss her forehead. "Let me help."

"You want to change diapers?"

"I want to be useful." I smile. "And then tonight—"

"Tonight." She kisses me. "Come back tonight."

Six Months Later

My sister thinks I've found a hobby.

The truth is I've found Fartun.

Every evening, I come to help with the kids. Every night, after they're all picked up, she closes the door and lets me care for her.

"Macaan," she moans. "My sweet helper."

The woman who mothers everyone.

The woman who finally lets herself be loved.