I used to be able to run after kids for my day job as a baby sitter.

I loved that job; scrambling after screaming kids with sticky fingers was something I found joy in. I liked looking at their plump, rosy faces, their innocent eyes shining brightly and their high pitched giggles unlocking something precious in my heart.

He used to sit on the sofa in the houses I babysat, watching in amusement as I transformed into one of those kids myself. He was always there, rain or shine, and his presence was something comfortable, like a warm hoodie you can slip into snugly on a wet, cold day. You little monkey, he used to say affectionately.

That never happened again after the accident.

I never babysitted again. How could I? I could no longer run about the house; much less make sure the kids were safe. What if they wanted a biscuit from a tin up high? What if they wanted a change of clothes? I could barely get my own biscuits or change my own clothes. I hated it, these little tinges of inadequacy, but fate was fate and I could only bow low to it with gritted teeth.

The day I resigned, I could feel the woman’s eyes on me, loaded heavily with mounds and mounds of sympathy. I had avoided her eyes, but deep in my heart I had suffered the brunt of her stare, her silent judgment, her quick sympathy.

I was on a wheelchair, unable to move, unable to get anywhere or do anything without getting help.

I was a pathetic being.

From then on I hated kids; icky little mongrels clamoring for attention. On my evening rounds in the par, I would purposely snub children who approached me.

“Hyung, do you have a dollar to spare?”

“Yes.”

“Could I have it please?”

“No.”

“Please hyung?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I won’t waste my money on filthy beggars.”

“I’m not a beggar hyung.”

“Then go away.”

“Won’t you even spare fifty-cents?”

“You disgusting creature, go away.”

“Hyung please, I need to feed my sister.”

“So you are a beggar.”

“I’m not!”

His face was all red now and his hands balled up into fists, but still he never moved from his spot, desperately eyeing my wallet.

I spat at his shoes.

But he, my lover, actually bent down to meet the child’s line of sight, and then offered him a kind smile. Pressing a couple of notes into the child’s hand, he gently said, “Go get some food.”

I watched, displeased, as bright sparks suddenly illuminated the child’s eyes and he scampered off, a leap in his walk and a spring in his step. A ridiculous smile was painted on his mud-liked complexion; a smile that I would dearly love to wipe off with a single slap.

“Why did you do that for?” I asked with a tinge of ire.

“They would go hungry if I didn’t,” he said quietly, not oblivious to my resentment.

“So be it,” I said, annoyed, then signaled him to push me on. He however, gripped both handlebars of the god-damned chair and steered me in the direction of the siblings. The child had raced back to a small little girl dressed in drabs and garments. Her face resembled that of wilted leaves, her veins showing strongly against her heart-shaped face. The boy brandished the money excitedly in front of her face, and despite her frail form, she clapped joyfully before allowing her brother to drag her to her feet and spin her around in circles.

“Isn’t that beautiful?”

“What?”

“That the boy can sacrifice his pride out of pure love for his sister.”

“Filthy scum of the earth.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They can do what I can’t.”

“What?”

“Spin around in circles.”