The nerve.
“I don’t need to come inside,” I snapped. “You had no right.”
She didn’t flinch. “Sit down and listen to me.”
I don’t know why I did. Maybe because she wasn’t defensive. Maybe because she looked… steady.
Her apartment smelled faintly of jasmine tea. Framed photos lined the walls. She motioned to the couch.
“My son was eight,” she began, folding her hands in her lap. “I was working two jobs. I thought he was mature. Responsible.” Her voice didn’t shake, but something behind her eyes did. “One afternoon he tried to make noodles. He turned on the stove. Oil caught fire.”
I felt my anger hesitate.
“He spent three weeks in the burn unit,” she continued. “Forty years old now. Scars across his chest and arms. He still can’t stand the smell of smoke.”
Silence filled the room.
“I didn’t call because I think you’re a bad father,” she said. “I see you. I see you running every morning. I see your kids hugging you in the hallway. You’re exhausted, not neglectful.”
“Then why?” I asked, my voice quieter now.
“Because the system has resources,” she said firmly. “After-school programs. Childcare subsidies. Emergency assistance. They don’t give it easily. If you just walk in and ask, they hand you a pamphlet and send you home.”
I stared at her.
“But when there’s a case file,” she continued, “they are required to offer support services. They have to.”
It hit me slowly. This wasn’t sabotage.
It was strategy.
See more on the next page
Advertisement
Leave a Comment