At 13, on my very first babysitting job, the parents carefully explained every rule—then, right before leaving, the mom leaned in and whispered, “Don’t go into the basement.” As an ’80s kid raised on scary-movie basements, I avoided that door all night… until the kids were asleep and curiosity won. I pressed my ear to the door and heard whimpering and strange, sad laughter, then a thud that made my stomach drop. Against all common sense, I opened the door and crept down a few steps—only to discover the “monster” was a goat. The moment it saw me, it bleated like an alarm, so loudly it woke the kids. The oldest asked if I’d opened the basement door and calmly explained that “Carlos” always yelled because he thought he was about to be fed. I laughed so hard later I could barely explain it to the mom, who nearly cried laughing too—they’d temporarily kept the goat in the basement while fixing its pen.

Years later, babysitting felt less like spooky surprises and more like learning how unreliable adults can be. In my early twenties, I watched twins for a mother who loved dating and promised she’d be home by midnight—then vanished until morning with her phone off, strolling in laughing and wearing a man’s T-shirt like it was a joke. Another time, a child’s father showed up on Tinder; when I told his wife, he claimed his account was “hacked,” and she believed him. Those nights taught me the same lesson in different ways: kids may be chaotic, but it’s the adults who set the tone—and when they treat safety, boundaries, or trust like a punchline, you don’t argue. You just don’t come back.