I wasn’t even in love with Amara when I paid her rent.
We were “best friends,” and she was going through a “personal renaissance.” In practice, she resigned her café job, ghosted her family, and decided she needed “space to explore her creative self.”
I expected her to finish in a few months. But one month became twelve. Then 24. I kept paying.
I fell for her halfway in between. I never said it since she was “off men,” and I didn’t want to be him. I was there. Always. Groceries. A visit to the doctor. Her worry grows. She ran to the ER thinking she was miscarrying. Yep—miscarrying.
Because she became pregnant. I asked no questions. She said the dad “wasn’t important.” So I stayed. Still renting. Keep coming.
Then last week. As her due date approached, I emailed her what she wanted from me at the hospital. Diapers? Snacks? Relaxing ocean music playlist?
She remained silent.
A day later, one of her “energy healer” buddies sent a group text. The girl is born. Everyone can visit—except me. She said, “Please respect my boundary. Protect my energies from folks who claim my journey is theirs.”
Entitled. Me. Whoever floated her while she “journeyed.”
I packed up her mail and my last bills. Noted each return to sender.
Just before I dropped them off, I saw the return address on one envelope.
Then I discovered it was from her dad.
She said she hadn’t spoken to her dad in years. Someone who “didn’t understand her.” Someone she blamed for trust concerns. But there was this carefully handwritten letter to her with a return address twenty minutes outside the city. I hesitated.
I opened it against my better judgment.
Not hate mail. Not angry. It broke hearts. An earnest father trying to reach his daughter. He was proud to hear she would be a mother. His regrets for the past. He’d love to be there if she let him. The little check said, “For diapers or coffee or anything you need.”
So. She rejoined her family. Enough to take money.
I felt weak.
I spent all night wandering around my neighborhood, debating whether I was the villain or the fool in her story. Maybe I enabled her. Maybe my support was control, not love. Maybe she could have cut me off.
Something felt wrong.
So I quit paying.
I informed the landlord via email that I was no longer accountable for the lease. He received Amara’s new number. I disabled utility auto-debit.
I thought it was over.
A week later, an unexpected caller called.
Mom of Amara.
I had never met her, but Amara referenced me regularly. She dubbed me “the angel friend” who “saved her during a hard time.” Mom wanted to thank me. Ask for help.
For “a few days to realign her chakras in Tulum,” Amara left the baby with her. She hadn’t returned in nearly two weeks.
I blinked. Wait, she fled the country?
“Left the planet, as far as I know,” her mom quipped. “I thought you could reach her.”
I didn’t. Not anymore.
That phone call moved me. I now understood: Amara wanted no limits. She wanted blank checks. She preferred fans to friends. Whoever clapped when she floated never asked her destination.
That’s not how life works. No way with a newborn.
I visited her mother. I brought diapers, wipes, and anything else I could find in my flat to help. I felt odd, like I was playing a role I wasn’t invited to, but I wasn’t upset anymore. I felt relaxed.
None of it was requested by this baby. Only now was she here. Tiny, wrinkly, noisy, and oddly attractive.
I went occasionally. I wasn’t replacing anyone. But I helped. Giving her mom breaks. Ran errands. I stopped waiting for Amara to return.
Later, she did. Two months later. Shared filtered beach ceremony photographs with the phrase “rebirth.” No phone call to mom. No question about the baby.
She DM me to “forward any mail that looked important.”
I remained silent. I returned back the envelope from her dad with the check I never deposited after taking a photo of it.
I blocked her.
More than a year ago.
Today, baby Naya calls me “Unka Rafi.” After Amara skipped her custody court, her grandma adopted her. I testified. It was my last meeting with Amara. She never glanced at me.
I sometimes wonder if she cared. I try not to live there.
Life isn’t bookkeeping. You may not get back what you gave. But occasionally the reward is unexpected.
I never obtained my desired affection. I found something more stable. More truthful. Got a family.
And honestly? Enough seems right.
It’s impossible to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. However, you may support those who arrive. Despite their little, diaper-wrapped bundles.
I won’t give her another dime. But I won’t regret giving them.
We sometimes give to the wrong people for good reasons.
Life sometimes redeems itself.
If this story touched you, share it. Maybe someone needs to know they’re not alone. If you’ve given more than you received, don’t despair. Karma sometimes requires time to catch up.
