The Babysitter
We’re sitting in the sun having a cuppa, a couple of chipped teapots and brightly patterned cups scattered on the table. The scent of freshly baked gingerbread hangs in the air, while I pick at a few of the sweet crumbs on my plate. “You’re much more than just a babysitter,” he says, and I smile. It’s been 40 years since I babysat the children, who now have children of their own, young adults who travel the globe, off on their own adventures. In that time, I have married, I have had children, I have divorced, I have loved, and I have cried. Christmas cards and the occasional visit didn’t breach the gap, but now we live in the same suburb, a sleepy coastal village, just a ferry’s ride across the water to the capital. I’ve been here just five months, trying to find my feet, as paid work evaporates and illness floats around me. Yet all the while, my old friends are here, good people who know the value of connection, of whanaungatanga: "Come for dinner," she says, and it