Days Filled with Little Footsteps

If someone had told me a week ago that I’d be living with a child, I would have laughed. Me? The woman whose plants kept dying because she forgot to water them? The woman whose fridge was often empty except for takeout leftovers and instant noodles?

But here I was—seven days after Eli first knocked on my door—watching him parade around my apartment in my oversized apron, humming proudly as he carried a spoon like it was a royal scepter.

“Ta-da!” he announced, balancing on tiptoes to stir the pot of soup I had prepared. “Chef Eli is helping Auntie cook!”

I tried not to smile too wide. “Helping? You’re mostly making a mess.”

He gasped dramatically, pointing the spoon at me. “No, no, no! Auntie, I’m the best helper. Look! I’m stirring very carefully!”

True enough, his little arm was moving slowly in circles, tongue poking out in concentration. It was messy, yes, but it was also… adorable.

I’d never had this kind of chaos in my kitchen before. And strangely enough, I didn’t mind.

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Our mornings had transformed completely. Where I used to drag myself out of bed, dreading the monotony of work, now I woke to Eli’s cheerful calls.

“Auntie~! Wake up! The sun is here!”

Sometimes he would tug at my blanket, other times he’d climb onto the bed and bounce until I gave up. His giggles filled the apartment like sunshine pouring through the windows, chasing away the silence that had always been my companion.

Even going to work had changed. I couldn’t take him with me, of course, so I arranged for Mrs. Lopez, the kind old lady next door, to watch him while I was away.

The first morning I tried to leave him, he clung to my leg with watery eyes. “Auntie, don’t go! What if you forget me?”

I crouched down, my heart aching. “I won’t forget you, Eli. I promise. I’ll be back this evening, and then we can eat dinner together, okay?”

He sniffled, then nodded bravely. “Okay. Auntie has to work hard! I’ll wait!”

And he did. Every evening, without fail, he would be sitting by the window, his little suitcase beside him, waiting for me to come home.

The first time I saw him like that, waving eagerly as I walked up, something inside me shifted. It felt like… someone was waiting for me. For me.

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Life with Eli wasn’t always easy. He asked endless questions—about my work, about why the sky was blue, about why broccoli tasted “like sadness.” He scattered his toys across the floor and insisted they were “guardians” protecting the apartment.

But he also filled the rooms with laughter. He drew silly pictures and taped them to my fridge. He hugged me when I looked tired. He said things like, “Auntie, you’re prettier than the TV ladies,” with complete sincerity.

One evening, as we sat on the couch after dinner, he leaned against me, eyelids drooping.

“Auntie,” he mumbled sleepily, “do you know what Mommy said?”

“What did she say?” I asked, brushing his hair back.

“She said… home isn’t a place. It’s a person who makes you feel safe.”

My throat tightened. I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that home was supposed to be walls, roofs, and addresses. But as his tiny hand clutched mine, warm and trusting, I couldn’t bring myself to correct him.

Maybe… maybe his Mommy had been right.

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By the end of the week, I no longer thought of Eli as “the little boy who showed up at my door.”

He was just… Eli.

The one who laughed too loudly at cartoons, who clapped when I cooked, who demanded bedtime stories every night.

The one who had turned my quiet, empty apartment into something alive.

And though I kept telling myself this couldn’t last—that eventually, someone would come looking for him, that I’d have to let him go—deep down, a selfish part of me wished time would freeze right here.

Because with Eli by my side, I no longer felt so alone.

And for the first time in years… I was truly afraid of losing something.

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