At 17, I was babysitting for the Mercers’ kids when midnight came and went — and they never came home.
By 4 a.m., I turned on the news and froze.
Their faces were on TV, caught trying to flee the country with fake passports. Embezzlement. Fraud. And I was still in their house, with Elise and Ezra asleep upstairs.
At dawn, my mom and I contacted Child Protective Services. The kids were taken into foster care — Elise crying, Ezra clutching his dinosaur book.
Three months later, I received a letter from their mother: “Thank you for taking care of them. Don’t forget them.”
I didn’t.
I visited whenever I could, and when I learned they were about to be separated into different homes, I petitioned for guardianship at 20 — and won.
We lived in a tiny apartment. I worked, studied, and struggled, but slowly, the kids began to smile again.
Two years later, a $40,000 cashier’s check arrived from a Swiss law firm — part of a trust their mother had set up for them.
We never heard from their parents again.
Now, Ezra’s a coding whiz, Elise dreams of becoming an art therapist, and I’m no longer just the babysitter — I’m their guardian.
Sometimes, you don’t choose the story.
But you still choose who you become in it.
