Chapter 6
WHEN I SPOTTED THAT babysitting gig posted online again, I decided to bite the bullet and make some money. Couldn't be too difficult, I figured.
How wrong I was.
“Babysitting” turned out to be a misnomer. When I got to the house, a frazzled sixty-something woman answered the door and asked, “You're Wednesday?”
I nodded.
“You think you're ready for this?”
Hesitantly, I replied, “Ready for what?”
Her mother. That's who I'd be babysitting. Not a kid, but a cranky British woman in her eighties.
Edith was her name.
She was mean.
I don't want to think about it. At least I pocketed some cash. Not enough for the train ticket home, but a little something. I know my uncle said he'd gladly pay my way, but I didn't want the week to be a wash. That's the work ethic my mother
