When I was in my early twenties, I occasionally babysat a pair of twins on weekends. Their mother was incredibly attractive and frequently went on dates.
One evening, she mentioned she had met someone and was heading out with him. She left around 6 p.m., assuring me she’d be back by midnight. As the hours passed—1 a.m., 2 a.m., then 3 a.m.—there was still no sign of her.
I kept calling, but eventually, her phone went straight to voicemail. By the time I woke up at 7 a.m., she still hadn’t returned. Searching through an address book, I found the grandparents’ contact information and decided to call them. They weren’t alarmed at all—just irritated, as if this was nothing new. They said they’d come over to watch the twins so I could leave.
I also contacted the non-emergency police line to report the situation, letting them know the grandparents were on their way. About an hour later, she finally walked in, wearing a men’s t-shirt and heels, giggling. With a smirk, she joked, “Oh my God! Call the police!”
That was the last time I ever babysat for her. She had deliberately turned off her phone to avoid being disturbed and spent the entire night with the guy—fully expecting me to brush it off like it was nothing.