The Peanut Butter Babysitter

Beth found Aimee in the kitchen on Saturday afternoon, standing over a cutting board with a half-sliced apple and that little crease between her brows that meant she was thinking too hard. The house was calm -- the boys down for quiet time, Jim outside washing the car. It was as private a moment as they ever got.

“Got a minute?” Beth asked.

Aimee looked up immediately, softening. “Yeah. Of course.”

Beth motioned toward the back deck, and they stepped outside into the shade. The air smelled faintly of cut grass and the sunscreen the boys insisted on smearing on themselves even when they weren’t going anywhere.

Aimee perched on the glider, tucking one leg under herself. Beth stayed standing for a moment, gathering her thoughts -- not because she didn’t know what she wanted to say, but because she wanted to say it in a way that didn’t spook the girl who was somehow still learning she belonged.

“Jim and I talked this week,” Beth began.

Aimee’s eyes widened just enough to show she noticed the seriousness in Beth’s voice. Not fear -- more like bracing.

“It’s all good things,” Beth said quickly, taking the seat beside her. “The Cape ... opened something for us. For all three of us.”

Aimee exhaled, relieved but still uncertain. “Okay.”

Beth reached out and covered Aimee’s hand. “First. You don’t have to wait for a specific invitation to be in our bed.”

Aimee froze like Beth had hit pause on her mid-breath.

Beth went on, slow and gentle. “You never did, honestly. But now? It’s open. Every night. Any night. If you want to be with us ... for sleeping or talking or ... anything ... come in. You’re not intruding.”

Aimee’s throat worked as she swallowed. “I just ... I didn’t want to overstep.”

“You’re part of this,” Beth said, squeezing her fingers. “You’re not a guest in our room. You belong there.”

Aimee blinked fast, like the words hit exactly where she’d been afraid to look. She stared down at their hands, her voice barely above a whisper. “I want to. I always want to.”

Beth felt something unclench in her chest -- the quiet kind of joy, the sort you only get when someone finally understands what you’ve been trying to show them.

They sat with that for a beat, the glider moving slightly.

“Now,” Beth said, shifting them to the other piece, “we should talk about the outside world.”

Aimee gave a small, rueful laugh. “Yeah. That part.”

“We’re not lying,” Beth said. “Not about you. Not about what you are to us.”

Aimee nodded slowly. “I agree.”

“But,” Beth continued, “we also don’t owe anyone a dissertation. If someone asks who you are, we keep it simple. ‘She lives with us.’ ‘She’s part of the family.’ That’s it.”

“And if someone pushes?” Aimee asked, but it wasn’t fearful -- just curious, like she was mentally mapping the edges.

“We handle it case by case. Honestly, but not with any more detail than someone deserves,” Beth said. “We’re not going to minimize you. But we’re not giving the PTA your entire emotional biography either.”

Aimee snorted. “Thanks.”

Beth smiled. “We’re all figuring this out together. That’s the point.”

The back door creaked then, and Jim stepped onto the deck, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He paused when he saw them sitting close.

“Should I come back out in five minutes?” he asked, half-teasing, half-aware.

“No,” Beth said. She patted the seat beside Aimee. “Good timing.”

Jim sat, the glider dipping under his weight. Aimee leaned slightly toward him without meaning to -- a gravitational pull she no longer tried to hide.

“I told her,” Beth said, “that she doesn’t need a special invitation to be in our bed.”

Aimee glanced up at him, shy and bright and a little stunned. Jim’s expression softened instantly.

“Good,” he said. “Because we miss you when you’re not there.”

Aimee’s breath caught, and Beth felt her reach for both their hands at once -- instinct, not performance.

Jim added, gentle but sure, “We want you with us. All the time if you want.”

The porch was quiet except for the cicadas and the faint hum from the neighbor’s AC unit.

Aimee let out a tiny, shaky laugh. “Okay. Then ... I will. I want to.”

Beth leaned in, resting her head briefly on Aimee’s shoulder, letting the moment settle in around all three of them.

They weren’t in the Cape house anymore, but the shape they’d found there had followed them home. And it was already starting to feel permanent.

A couple of weeks later, Aimee’s parents arrived on a Friday afternoon, pulling into the driveway with the cautious enthusiasm of people who wanted to be warm but weren’t entirely sure what temperature the room allowed. Aimee greeted them with a tight hug that softened only after a few seconds, as if she had to remind herself they were actually here.

They spent that first evening together alone--Aimee had planned it that way--taking them to a small restaurant near campus, then showing them her classrooms, the quad, the coffee shop where she studied. She returned home late, smelling faintly of cold air and her mother’s perfume, tired but relieved the day hadn’t gone badly.

The next night was the Robinsons’ turn.

Beth spent half the afternoon cooking: roasted chicken thighs, lemony potatoes, a big salad Aimee insisted on assembling herself, and a blueberry crisp because she knew it was “a Maine thing” and wanted to offer something familiar. Jim set the table, letting the boys fold napkins in lopsided triangles that needed to be quietly refolded after.

Aimee’s parents arrived right on time--polite knock, polite smiles. Her mother carried a tin of cookies; her father handed over a bottle of wine with a slightly stiff “thank you for having us.”

---

The park was already loud when we arrived--shrieks from the playground, the thump of a soccer ball being kicked too hard, a toddler wailing somewhere off to the left in that universal “I dropped my snack” pitch. I carried the cupcakes; Beth held the gift bags; Aimee walked between us with Jake on her hip like she’d been born with him glued there.

Parents filtered in slowly, the usual mix of small talk and half-distracted greetings. I helped Ethan and Jake set up the picnic table while Aimee drifted toward the knot of kids gathering near the slide.

And instantly--instantly--she had them eating out of her hand.

Within minutes she was pushing a train of three kids on the swings, narrating the whole experience with dramatic gasps and terrible sound effects. Ethan abandoned me and the gift bags entirely, sprinting toward her with his usual “Aimeeeee!” battle cry. Jake followed, shrieking in delight, his little legs pumping twice as fast as his body could handle.

She caught them both without breaking stride.

I stood there watching, trying not to smile too broadly. It struck me every time--how naturally she fit into any group of children, like she was tuned to their frequency, picking up their excitement, their fears, their need for attention, all without effort.

Beth sidled up beside me. “Every time I think she can’t be more of a natural...”

“I know,” I said quietly.

A few of the other moms noticed too. One--Megan, I thought--wandered over.

“Your ... family friend? She’s great with kids,” she said, nodding toward Aimee, who was crouched in the mulch helping Ethan tie his sneaker.

“She lives with us,” I said. The line slid out with an ease I’d practiced in my head. “She’s part of the family.”

“Oh! That’s wonderful,” Megan said, smiling. “She seems really sweet.”

“She is,” Beth added. “The boys adore her.”

Another mom overheard and joined in, the way moms tend to do when the scent of harmless gossip is in the air. “So is she in college? I think Ethan mentioned that once.”

“Yes,” Beth said smoothly. “Senior year.”

“Oh, good for her. Must be nice for you guys to have the help.”

“We’re very lucky,” I said, keeping my tone warm and noncommittal.

No one pressed further. They weren’t here to solve mysteries; they were corralling five-year-olds hopped up on juice boxes. But I could feel the gentle antennae at work--nothing sharp, just curiosity. It was the mothers more than the fathers; the dads clustered around the cooler talking football, glancing over only when a kid cried.

Later, during cupcakes at the picnic table, Aimee ended up between Ethan and one of his classmates. Ethan leaned into her side the whole time, chocolate frosting smeared across his cheek and the sleeve of her shirt. Jake climbed into her lap halfway through the singing, uninvited but instantly accommodated. She balanced him effortlessly while helping Ethan unwrap a small Lego set from one of his friends.

Parents noticed that too--the way the boys treated her as a safe default, not a novelty.

But no one said anything pointed. Not yet.

After the crowd thinned and the last sugar-high child was dragged to a minivan, Beth and I packed up the remains while Aimee sat in the grass, Jake dozing against her shoulder, Ethan resting his head on her knee.

I walked over, taking in the scene: the warm shade, the quiet hum of cicadas, Aimee brushing a curl off Jake’s forehead with a tenderness you can’t fake.

“You good?” I asked her.

She looked up, smiling. “Yeah. Just tired in that good way.”

“Parents liked you,” Beth said as she joined us. “Lots of questions.”

Aimee winced. “Bad questions?”

“No,” I said. “Just curious ones. The easy ones.”

She relaxed a little. “Good.”

I reached down and ruffled Ethan’s hair. “Your party was a hit, buddy.”

Ethan grinned without lifting his head. “Because Aimee was there.”

I watched her face at that--how she tried to swallow the emotion with a laugh. It didn’t quite work.

As we walked back to the cars, Aimee shifted closer to me without even seeming aware of it. Just a new instinct.

And I felt it again--that sense that the outside world didn’t yet have a name for what the three of us were building, but the boys already understood.

Whatever shape this family was becoming, it had already taken root. The rest of the world would catch up later. Or it wouldn’t, and that thought didn’t bother me like it used to.