Babysitters
The Standishes lived a block away. The father was named Young Attorney of the Year; the mother enjoyed the Junior League and the Neiman Marcus makeup counter. They had two little girls, prim and pretty, and for a stretch of three years, I was their babysitter.
"Help yourself to whatever," Mrs. Standish would say, slipping on a mink as she rushed toward the Mercedes idling in the driveway.
"I'm fine." I would wave her off as she headed for the door. "I already ate."
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