Impregnating The Sitter

April (Alina Lopez) climbs the wide front steps feeling nothing but the usual mix of tired legs and overdue bills. The place is huge, which means this gig could finally put a dent in rent. She knocks. A man (Dick Chibbles) swings the door open wearing the easy smile of someone who never checks price tags. 'Mr. Perry?' 'That’s me. April, right? Come on in.' She follows him into a living room big enough to echo. Small talk drifts to the missing wife, and he mentions she’s pulling an all-nighter at work. A lie soft as room-temperature milk, yet she shrugs it off. Jobs pay, right? He rattles off questions that start harmless and inch past small talk: heritage, gymnastics, scholarship chances. April keeps answering even while her shoulders tighten. When he pushes money talk she brightens—she wants fashion school but her wallet keeps saying no. He grins. “No shame in working for it,” he says, like the offer is already signed. Finally, he points her toward the boys’ playroom and trails behind, gaze fixed a little too low. “One hell of a future mom,” he mutters. Hours later April is shoving toy trucks into bins. On the coffee table a crayon sketch waits: stick-figure “Dad” with Claire beside him, three grinning boys, and a second woman crossed out in heavy black. The scribble feels personal, vicious. She whispers, “What the hell?” Phone out, she types Trent Perry into the search bar. First result—his wife’s obituary. Before she can finish the headline she hears his step and spins. He fills the doorway like sudden weather. “You lying about your wife?” she snaps, holding up the obituary. Grief flickers across his face, then something sharper. “Have you ever had someone just die on you?” he asks quietly. April’s chest tightens at the echo of her own parents’ accident, so she stays. He spins a story: years of trying, one precious pregnancy, wife gone in labor. He loves his son, he says, yet he still aches for a daughter. “I just need the vessel,” he offers, raw now. “Nine months, full ride for school, private academy for your brother, cash up front.” Her mind races, paycheck math fights against skin-crawl. She thinks of rent, textbooks, her kid brother’s worn sneakers. She asks the price and hates the wobble in her own voice. Numbers fall. Silence follows. Eyes lock. He takes her arm, gentle like it’s already settled, and leads her toward the stairs.