I remember the day she came. She sashayed into the house, gave my mum a warm smile, and then we were alone. She was kind. She was gracious. She was likeable. You wouldn’t expect anything to be off with her. She cooked me dinner every night my parents were out. It was always the same thing. Chicken. It didn’t taste like chicken, though. It was sweet and tender. Whenever my mum made me chicken I would scream and cry because she didn’t make it right. Mum asked her how she made it, she stammered on about soaking it in sauce overnight. No matter what mum tried, it wasn’t the same. I became addicted to my babysitters home cooked meals. Her cooking was amazing. Sometimes it was in a sandwich. Sometimes a stew. Sometimes a salad, but it always tasted amazing. One day I went to find her before she started cooking dinner, with a notepad and pen so that she could write down her secret cooking recipe. That’s when I found out. Her secret recipe wasn’t sauce, or breast, or steaming or anything like that.

It was people.