My Experienced Visitor
by Ilya J. Hakky
I had a simple plan: fold the laundry, feed my twins, eat lunch, put them down for a nap. The plan failed in exactly seven minutes.
One twin started crying before I finished sorting the laundry.
‘Already hungry? That’s fine, I’ll get back to the laundry later,’ I said to myself and proceeded to the next step.
The feeding didn’t go to plan either. Bouncing one crying baby on my lap, I tried to give carrot and salmon purée to the other who was sitting in a high chair. The baby tasted the purée, looked personally insulted, and spat the whole lot back out. Now she was covered in a bright orange mix, and the bib had no chance of stopping the stain from spreading on her T-shirt.
I reached for a muslin cloth, but it was not there. The cloth shone at me from the counter, too far to reach. The white fabric glowed like the beacon of my isolation. There was no one to pass it to me.
The baby quieted just long enough for me to fetch the cloth before erupting again with renewed energy.
‘You must be tired,’ I concluded after looking at the clock and calculating the wake window. The baby in the high chair meowed in agreement; she would make a cat noise when she was sleepy.
There went my lunch. The baby swung her little arm at the purée bowl, knocking it onto the floor. The purée made a spectacular orange splash, covering the floor, the high chairs, and the wall behind.
‘That concludes the purée phase of the feed,’ I scooped up the baby, abandoned the mess, and started making bottles.
My phone blinked. A message from my husband. ‘When you get to the grocery store, don’t forget my protein bars.’
I felt muddy waters rising within me. Afraid to get into a berserker fit while holding a baby in my hand instead of a battleshield, I typed, ‘Why don’t you step by the store on your way home yourself? I made a list.’
The baby in my arms resumed screaming while trying to wiggle himself out of my arms.
The doorbell rang. Ugh! Bad timing. Our postman had developed a habit of leaving the parcels for Pam, my neighbor, with me when she wasn’t home or couldn’t come to the door. I would normally have been glad to help out, but not today.
The doorbell rang again as I mixed the bottles with one hand and wrestled a screaming baby with the other. I tried to remember if I already had a parcel for Pam that she might want to pick up. Not now, Pam.
Another ring.
‘What the hell could you possibly need from me right now?’ I walked over to the door with the baby in hand, muttering, ‘This building had better be on fire!’
When I opened the door, there was a lady standing in front of me. ‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Um, hello?’ I replied.
‘I came over to visit my babies, but then I heard the little one crying and decided to ask if you needed help.’
‘We are fine, thanks,” I said, studying the stranger. I couldn’t tell how old she was, but her back was hunched, and her hair was grey. If I met her on the street, I would feel that I was the one who should offer her help rather than receive it from her. Besides, I was not keen on letting a stranger inside, even if she was a well-meaning neighbor.
Her warm smile settled into wrinkles around her eyes. ‘Look, I also have a chicken pie, if you’re hungry,’ she said and held out a dish.
Her fingers were deformed, bent towards the outside of her hand. On her left wrist, she had a scar that resembled a star unevenly drawn by a practicing toddler. The meaty, rich scent with a hint of rosemary reached my nostrils. My stomach recognized my favorite dish before I did.
I gestured toward the kitchen. She took her shoes off and walked in.
The mess I had been blind to suddenly came into focus. Toys were scattered everywhere, but they were the least of it. Two empty coffee cups and dirty plates were on the kitchen table, along with dirty utensils spread all over. The counter was full of baby bottles, some empty, some half full, all in obvious need of washing. Beyond the kitchen island was our living area. It was covered in piles of clothes I had just sorted but couldn’t put away. To top all that, there sat, in a highchair, a baby, covered in bright orange purée.
‘Sorry for the mess,’ I muttered.
‘It’s quite alright, dear,’ she said to me. ‘I know how twins are. Why don’t you give me this one, so you can get dressed and eat?’ She turned to the baby in the high chair. ‘You’ve already decided you hate carrots, haven’t you?’
‘Prrr-pap-pap,’ she smiled at the baby on my hip.
‘Pap-pap,’ replied my grumpy baby and stretched his arms towards the stranger.
I handed over the baby and realized that I was still wearing my pyjamas. Still uneasy about leaving my babies with the stranger, I rushed to the bedroom to find anything clean I could put on.
When I came back, both babies were giggling for the first time since they’d woken up; one was on her lap and one still in the high chair. The lady was sitting in the same position I had been sitting in just before she came. The difference was that the children’s faces were now clean, the purée splatter was gone, and the table was tidied.
The dirty dishes stared at me from the sink, but she said, even before I moved, ‘Why don’t you eat first?’
I found the utensils, dug out two clean plates and two teacups, turned on the kettle, and sat next to her. The hearty smell of the pie filled the kitchen. I helped myself to a piece and took a bite. It was delicious. She stared at my hands as I was cutting another piece and reached to rub the scar on her left wrist.
‘That’s a big scar. Was it an accident?’ I asked, chewing the pie.
‘Yes, yes it was. It wasn’t that bad, though. At the time, I only thought it was lucky my babies were not with me,’ she said.
‘Were your whole hand and your fingers caught in it as well?’ curiosity got the better of me.
‘No. That happened over a long time,’ she answered with a kind smile.
I hesitated to ask any more questions. The kettle beeped, filling the silence. I stood up to pour us tea.
‘I love my kids to death,’ she said after a pause, bouncing the baby she was holding. ‘Every mother does, I know. Dying is the easy part, you will see,’ she gently petted the deformed fingers of one hand with the other. ‘Living, truly living, not just surviving, is the tricky part.’
My eyes traveled to the corner where a dusty stack of plastic boxes stood. Some months ago, I collected all of my unfinished sewing projects, along with the leftover fabrics and patterns, into these containers in a futile attempt to organize.
She followed my gaze and nodded. I felt understood, and any suspicion I held until that moment disappeared.
‘After my kids were born, I struggled to get my joy back, but anger took over. I couldn’t possibly be angry at my little angels.’ She shifted the baby from one knee to the other and made a silly face at him. He giggled in approval.
‘My husband did his best, but he was at work all day. The friends had their own lives, and I had no right to demand anything from them. Society couldn’t have been expected to change overnight, so no point in getting angry at it either.’
She took a sip of her tea. ‘Without a clear target, my anger could only attack one thing: my own body. And it did so spectacularly.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘I have rheumatoid arthritis; that’s the fingers. It’s an autoimmune disease: my body literally beats itself up. There’s more to the bouquet. It’s not just the fingers anymore.’ She looked troubled, and I reached for her shoulder to comfort her. Before I could find the right words, she stood up. ‘Anyway, I’m rambling. This one needs a nap. Let me help you put them down, and I’ll be off. Try to rest a bit while they sleep; the dishes can wait.’
* * *
The next morning began with a heated debate with my husband about whose turn it was to undertake the most luxurious outing: the solo trip to the grocery store. I won.
Pam was smoking a cigarette on our front porch, as she often did.
‘Oh, hey! We have another package for you,’ I remembered.
‘You must be getting plenty of packages these days with everyone else being off for the summer vacations.’
‘Did the Smiths also leave?’
‘Yes, they went to Italy this year. Fancy!’ She sighed.
I remembered the visitor from the day before. With everyone in our building gone on vacation, the lady must have come to see Pam.
‘Oh, did your mom come to visit? Say thank you for me; she was my savior yesterday. I did not catch her name,’ I said.
Pam’s big brown eyes darted sideways. Then she raised a single eyebrow, as if she had a hard time following me, and answered in a low voice, slowing down every word, ‘My mom is in Argentina. I just had a call with her this morning.’
‘What do you mean, she’s in Argentina?’ I said more loudly than I expected.
Before I could say anything else, we heard a growl. A few meters ahead of us, a huge black German shepherd was staring at us, its paws spread wide. Another growl.
‘Stop! Bad dog! Leave it!’ a petite girl in fashionably ripped jeans was screaming from behind the dog. She held the leash with both hands, leaning with her whole weight against it.
This outburst must have fueled the dog’s suspicion even more, because instead of ‘leaving it,’ the dog charged at us, dragging his helpless handler behind. Right before the girl planted her face on the pavement, she let go of the leash, and the dog leaped at me. Instinctively, I put my hand in front of me, and the next thing I felt was the dog’s jaws on my left wrist. I managed to keep my balance and stay on my feet.
Pam did not hesitate. She lunged for the dog and pressed on the dog’s jaw until it let go of me. By then, the girl had stood up from the pavement. She took hold of the leash and pulled the dog to the side. He was still growling but no longer charged at us, staying between the girl’s legs.
‘I am so sorry. I don’t know how it happened,’ said the girl, sobbing. ‘It’s my boyfriend’s dog. He’s a sweetheart and has never bitten anyone before.’
‘You need to go to the hospital. I’ll go with you,’ said Pam, looking at my wrist. ‘We will need your boyfriend’s number. For the insurance,’ she said to the girl before we left.
Pam walked me to reception. The nurse at the reception sprayed the wound with antiseptic and gave me a clean bandage to press on. It took over two hours after that for a doctor and a surgical nurse to see me.
‘It’s a nasty wound but, luckily, nothing is broken. It could have been much worse, considering the breed of the dog,’ said the nurse while bandaging my hand. ‘It’s a miracle.’
‘I’m just glad my babies were not there with me,’ I said.
‘You’ll have a scar,’ she warned, tucking the ends of the bandage in.
I already knew what it would look like.
I looked at my fingers; the bones were still aligned in their joints. The understanding pierced straight through me: no one was coming to save me. If my future was going to change, I was the only one who could make it different.
Copyright © 2026 by Ilya J. Hakky
