Love Will Tear Us Apart - 1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

I silenced my alarm and stretched, putting my hands behind my head and looking up at the ceiling. I've seen people that stretch like that, pretending to be asleep or relaxing, but my arms fall asleep in that position. So I wasn't getting up yet, but I was in no danger of falling back to sleep, even though I hadn't slept that well the night before.

I know for a fact I wasn't the easiest kid. I wasn't setting cars on fire or flashing the neighbors, but I got up to a fair amount of shit. Enough shit that I was suspected of far more than I actually did. But something had happened in high school that no one saw coming. While I still – with some pride – feel like there is plenty of kid left in me, somehow a mature side of me developed. I think it started with Sasha. How he made me see myself. How I liked that he could find value in me.

He helped me find value in me.

It didn't all happen at once, not by any measure except maybe that one they use to show how long the world has been here versus how long humans have been here. I've had lots of starts and stops, but Sasha has been here in a way no one else really can. Your parents do their best, but they're there to guide and teach – and yes, love. But Sasha is my friend, my lover, my confidant, and he's not afraid to hold up a mirror to let me see who I am, whatever that might be.

I don't always like what I see. Sometimes I fight that. But I guess...Sasha represents balance in my life.

When we made the choice to try and help Micah, it really wasn't thought out very well. Micah hadn't had parents like mine. He never had someone like Sasha. Oh, he's got feelings – twisted, tangled, and he struggles with them. Sometimes he just loses his shit because he can't figure things out, and it has to be exhausting, but no more exhausting than trying to be his parent. Trying to follow in my parents' footsteps and failing – or feeling like I am.

So when Micah told us he wanted to sleep over at this girl's house – someone he's got some interest in – we were both a hard no. That turned into accusations about us not trusting him, and I reminded him that, yeah, you can't trust two horny teenagers not to room hop in the middle of the night. Well, I half meant it to be funny, but that was the exact wrong thing to say. Before you know it the whole night was ruined. I was so drained that I felt like my head was just a dead weight, and yet I hadn't been able to sleep. I played things over in my head, second guessing myself and just...feeling like I'm in over my head.

Sometimes I don't like my kid that much. He says some mean shit when he's mad. The therapist says it's hard for kids to unlearn these kinds of things that have worked for them in the past. That talking through therapy and us holding him accountable will help as he matures. I don't know. Some days it's hard to see that point. Other times...he's just so great. You can do something with him, and there's this joy you find hidden in him, and I try to hang onto that. I really do.

I heard the shower turn off and sighed. Sasha was getting ready for his day, and he was going to walk in here, clean and fresh and sexy without trying. I'd have liked nothing more than to cuddle into him and just not leave my bed all day.

The door opened, and there he was, towel around his waist. He nudged the door closed with his foot, and I heard Micah close the bathroom door.

“You getting up today?” Sasha asked, looking at me as I pretended to be comfortable and well rested.

“Who says I'm not?”

His gaze flicked to my waist and back up. “Says me,” he replied, lips curling.

“I think you should fix that,” I replied smugly.

He tilted his head to one side. “If we didn't have the schedules we do today, that'd be a great suggestion.”

“C'mon,” I said, climbing from the bed and reaching for his towel. “Give me a look, here. I'm a doctor!”

He laughed and spun away, losing the towel and opening his underwear drawer. “No, Alec. I have a final, and you need to get ready.”

I shifted off the bed and put my hands on his waist, pushing up against him and nuzzling his neck. “Oh, I'm ready.”

He chuckled and let his head roll back a bit. “You're going to be late.”

“If we were a straight couple, that'd worry me more,” I replied, running my fingers up his flanks, but stopping short of being more forward. He was right, after all.

He turned in my light grip and put his arms around my neck, letting his hands dangle in the air behind me. He cocked his head and smiled at me. How I love that smile. Then he pulled his arms back and pushed me so I plopped back down on the bed, and he pulled up his underwear.

“No fair.” I pouted.

He moved forward, straddling me and looking down on my upturned face. He kissed me and touched our noses together. “Later.”

Then he tried to stand back up. I grabbed him, and we toppled over on the bed. He was laughing and threatening, and it was just like it was only us in the world.

But the bathroom door opened, and I heard Micah going down the hall, and then Sasha was climbing off the bed and telling me - or just talking aloud – about how he had a test and he had to make sure Micah took his meds and reminding me I had to shave and try not to look like a broke college student for today. I watched him for a moment as he dressed. He told me to hurry up and then headed to the kitchen. I heard the murmur of his and Micah's voices, and I stretched and thought for a moment about just saying fuck it all and going to sleep.

The memes are right. Adulting sucks.

I pulled on enough clothes that the kid wouldn't pretend he was throwing up – not sure where he picked that up – and went out to the kitchen for some coffee.

“Morning,” I said to Micah.

“Not talking to you.”

“Oh? What a shame,” I muttered.

“Why can't you just say you don't trust me?” he demanded, picking up last night's fight.

“Because you're a horny teenager, and I don't want you getting someone pregnant and being responsible for something for the rest of your life yet?” I leaned against the counter and sipped my coffee.

“It's not like that! I don't do that!”

“Not yet,” I said, not sure if I believed it. “But-”

“Oh, fuck you,” he said sullenly, slipping off the seat and going to his room.

I looked to Sasha who pressed his lips together. “You're right. You said what I would, but he can't see it yet.”

I sighed. “No point in both of us fighting with him. I seem to be his favorite target though.” I smiled at Sasha. “I always thought being a favorite would feel better.”

“You're my favorite husband, if that helps.”

“I better be your only one – now. I found that guy you had in the closet.”

“Oh? Damn. We need a bigger place, so I can stash more of them. Like a secret collection.”

“Hey,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “I'm supposed to have the evil plans.”

He grinned. “I've learned from the best.”

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^

I pulled up to the building and checked the signs for where visitors parked and where the spaces were reserved for staff. This building wasn't like old government buildings with pillars out front and stone floors within. This was more modern and lacked the character of the older buildings. Of course, it probably had central air and WiFi, so there was that.

I walked in the entryway and was confronted with a guard station.

“Have ID?” the guard asked.

“I do,” I replied, smiling.

He waited a beat. “Well? Let's have it.”

“Right,” I said, reaching for my phone. I pulled my license from the sleeve on my phone case and handed it to him.

“Who are you here to see?” he asked, looking at my ID and then to my face. I smiled brightly.

“Cindy Talbot.”

He grunted and picked up a phone. He hit a button and waited, hand on the desk and my ID trapped between his fingers. “Morning. This is the front desk. I have an Alec Kutsenko here for you? Okay.”

He hung up the phone and handed me back my license. He then pushed a book at me. “Sign in here; she'll be right down for you.” I resisted the urge to write 'Mickey Mouse' on the signature line, but it was a near thing. I wandered in the small entryway, looking at the layout. I was drawn to a wall with children's photos; kids who were up for adoption in the county. They were all older or had obvious medical needs.

Most states have some version of this office, this one called the county building for children and family services. There were a few other agencies inside as well, but the main occupant got the naming rights, I guess. My gaze flicked over the faces on the wall. I knew most of them would never find an adoptive home, not maybe for years until they made their own. Chances are they'd be pretty damaged and have trouble sustaining those families or relationships.

“Alec?”

I turned and smiled. “Cindy?”

“Nice to meet you,” she said, flashing me a fleeting smile and holding her hand out. Cindy Talbot looked about forty, and had what I assumed to be a large wig on her head. Her skin was darker than anyone I'd ever met; her eyes were bloodshot, and bags had settled in below them like emotional baggage that had found a physical host. “Come on up.”

I followed her up the wide stairs to a landing and then up again as the stairs were laid out in a switchback fashion. The second floor was open in the middle, just cubicles fitted throughout, with offices ringing the outer edge. She led me to a cubicle and waved me to a chair as she took a seat behind the desk.

“I have a few documents for you to sign. Your advisor should have told you about them? Confidentiality about cases you may see or read about today?”

“Yeah.” I leaned forward. “He thinks I have a big mouth.”

She looked steadily back at me, and I sat back a bit. She placed a small packet in front of me with a ball point pen clipped to the top.

“Read through those. They lay out the rules for your shadowing me today. The people you may hear about or engage with have a right to privacy, and you may not record, quote or write about them using anything identifiable or you will open yourself to civil penalties and potential prosecution.” She paused. “Do you understand?”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get it.” I flipped through the documents, not really reading, and signed them. Handing them back, I sat back and glanced around her cubicle. It was small and felt cramped from the filing cabinet behind her and the stacks of files on her desk.

“So. Any questions to start with?”

I met her gaze and asked, “Why all the paper? You have a computer.”

She nodded. “One thing to know about any government agency – they are always behind the technological curve. Any technological curve. You'd think we'd have central records and go into the field with tablets and make our case notes. Some places, maybe. This county? Oh, we have tablets, but no central filing, and we still fill out a lot of paper forms.”

I widened my eyes and took in all the folders again. “Wow.”

“Mm hm.” She tilted her head to one side. “Not many men get into this field.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I've heard that.”

“So...why?”

“My family has some experience. My brother was adopted from foster care. He had a hard road. My husband and I have a teenager – long story – but he had a hard time, and then he went into the system and had a hard time.”

She nodded. “The system is many things, but one it isn't is perfect.” She leaned forward and put her hands together. “You have to work with the whole family. We try not to remove children from their home. We have rules – imminent threat is one. We have programs for the parents – some have emotional issues. Some have substance abuse issues – sometimes all of that at once. We have to weigh what's in the best interests of everyone.”

I crossed my ankle over my knee and nodded. “My perspective has been that the system doesn't remove kids from bad parents fast enough.”

She nodded. “Sometimes. But there's other factors. Lack of other places for kids to be. Some folks are always clamoring to protect the kids and help the kids, but it's rare that any of them actually step up to do the hard work of making space for these kids. Some who do have an agenda. The monthly stipend. Religious conversion. Some have their heart in the right place but get overwhelmed, because they just aren't ready for these kids and some of their issues.” She sighed. “Some people mean well, but really aren't suited for kids.”

“So...why do you do it?”

“Part of it is experience,” she said, leaning back in her chair a bit. “I'm learning while I'm here. I hope I can do some good. Other opportunities will open up to me once I have the clinical experience under my belt. Then...we'll see.”

I shifted in my seat. “That seems....”

“Calculating? It is, in a way.” She leaned forward again. “In some ways working with this population is like trying to save someone from drowning. You have to get things calm so you can save them, because if you don't, you drown with them. This kind of work takes a human toll, and you have to be able to get some professional distance or it can eat you alive and burn you out. Sometimes...it doesn't sound good.”

I grunted. “That sucks.”

“It does,” she said slowly. “So, we have a few stops to make. You might want to use the bathroom before we go, even if you don't feel like you need to go right now. Once we're out in the field, it may be a bit.”

“Okay.”

Fifteen minutes later I signed out and joined Cindy in a dark blue sedan with county plates and a sticker on the two front doors identifying it as a county vehicle. We pulled out, and Cindy went through a drive-up line for a coffee chain and got us each a coffee.

“Caffeine is my friend and also my enemy. Don't think the contradiction between my suggestion you use the bathroom and then getting something to drink is lost on me,” she muttered. “So our first stop is a local school. When we get a call about a child who may be in some kind of situation that's been hot-lined to us, we go talk to the child in a setting away from the potential abuser. After we interview the child, we talk to each of the parents – if there are two for us to talk to – and make determinations from there.”

“What about the person that called the hot line?”

“Sometimes those are anonymous. In this case...there's a history of welfare calls.” She sighed as she pulled out into traffic. “Once you have a hot-line call to be investigated, you need to dig into the history – if there is one. This family has had some questionable things going on, but not rising to the level of abuse or imminent danger.”

“What qualifies as questionable?”

“Well, let's say that someone says the child looks thin. Underweight. Sometimes you find out that a parent has lost a job and food has gotten scarce. So we can step in with resources – food banks, maybe public assistance – to help get them through. There are places to get food, and I, personally, don't see a reason for people to go hungry. Sometimes it's lack of information, sometimes it's pride, or something just as dumb.”

“Okay. What are we looking at here? With this first stop?”

“Well, this family has had a few visits, as I said. The parents have resisted getting help of any kind. The mother seems to be intimidated by the father, to a point, and the father is one of those 'I'm the man' sorts. So this one revolves on pride as far as not getting help.” She pulled into a space and turned her head toward me. “Other than saying hello, you're not to engage with the situation. You're not licensed and are here to shadow, not to try and do the job. Are we clear?”

I looked down and then back up. “I'm fairly solid, actually.”

She sighed. “No dad jokes, either. I will not hesitate to bounce you from this program.”

Ouch. I nodded. “Okay.”

We walked to the front of the school and had to sign in before getting escorted to the office. I was thinking about how schools feel a bit more like low-level prisons and how going to a school office still felt somewhat intimidating as our footsteps echoed off the walls. In the office Cindy waved to the secretary and introduced me as a college student who was shadowing her for the day. They called the school nurse down, and we were put in a small conference room just off the main office.

The walls had various policies posted, copies of posters for things like helping someone that was choking, and training workshops and in-service training notifications. Cindy put her bag on the table and pulled out a tablet.

“I thought you had things mostly on paper?” I sat down with a chair between us.

“Yes,” she said, giving me a small smile. “But I can make notes and then print them. Typing things out is better for me, because I have horrendous penmanship.”

“Taught by nuns? Did they beat your knuckles with a ruler?” I asked.

“No. I always thought I'd be a doctor,” she said dryly.

The door opened, and an older woman, very slender, with tanned skin like old leather and salt and pepper hair entered. She shook hands with Cindy. “I'm the school nurse, Laura Martinez.”

Cindy made introductions and then asked about the child we were there about.

Laura nodded as she folded her hands on her lap. “She's a tough girl to deal with. She's the oldest, and she's been parentified quite a bit. It's hard for her to step out of that mindset when she's in school.”

“Discipline issues?” Cindy asked.

“Some, yes. Not that bad, really. However, she's come to me a few times in the past week complaining of stomach pain, and she's also noted the lack of food – like she hadn't had breakfast.”

Cindy typed on her screen. “Okay. Have you documented how often this has happened?”

“Yes. I have records on my computer, and I brought a copy.” She gestured to a folder in her hand. “This seems to have gotten worse lately. The family won't fill out the documentation for free or reduced meals. The father is frequently out of work, and they claim their income is too inconsistent.” The nurse's tone indicated what she thought of that.

“Okay. So she may not be getting enough to eat. Have you been weighing her, by any chance?”

“A few times. She follows direction well, but she thinks it's a bit of a game. Her weight is under what it should be, but hasn't reached an unhealthy point yet. But she's also mentioned having to watch her younger siblings when the parents aren't there, and she's only nine. Her youngest brother is five.”

Cindy's fingers tapped quickly on her screen as she made her notes. “Any marks or bruising?”

“I haven't seen anything,” the nurse said and hesitated. “But whenever you mention her parents, she gets very quiet. Once, last week, she said she's not supposed to talk about them.”

Cindy said something under her breath and sat up a bit. “Okay, so we should talk with her. Is she still being seen at the mental health clinic? I wasn't able to reach the therapist before I left today.”

“I'm not sure.”

“Any other concerns for her at school?”

They spoke a bit more before a call was placed to the classroom to get the child down to the office. I thought about the ambiguity of the situation and couldn't help but compare things to the way our house was right now. While Micah wasn't the same kid he was when we first met him, in some ways he still was – and may always be. I have no idea what the long term results of living with Sasha and I will be for him. I hope for positive things, but the fact is there has been a lot of damage done to him, and you can't know if what you're doing is right or the best thing.

We've had a lot of tired days, and not nearly all of them were due to him – but he hadn't helped all that often either. School had been brutal this year, our final year before we were supposed to start being real adults. Thing is, with Micah, we'd shifted into some of that a little earlier than planned. I don't think I'd ever say I regretted Micah or our choice to help him, to grow to love him – but that doesn't mean there wasn't a price. Like getting a 'fuck you' along with my morning coffee.

The door opened and a beautiful little girl with long, dark hair and big brown eyes entered. She looked a bit uncertain but sat down and squeaked a hello at Cindy.

Cindy smiled. “Hi, sweetie, good to see you. Nice shorts! It's been so hot lately, hasn't it?”

“Really hot. I sweat so much at home.”

Cindy smiled and wrinkled her nose. “Oh yeah? Hot in the house?”

The girl nodded quickly. “Mommy says we have to go to bed early, but it's too hot. It would be hotter if the lights were on.”

Cindy took a breath and smiled. “With the lights on? To sleep? Are you teasing me?”

The girl smiled widely. “No! None of the lights work, but mommy says it's because we're trying to keep things cooler inside and it's cooler when you're asleep anyway.”

“Wow. No lights? That would be scary to me. You're not scared?”

“Uh uh!” the girls said, shaking her head hard enough to make her brain slide side-to-side.

“Well, you're braver than I am,” Cindy said with a sad smile. “How is school going?”

I listened as Cindy used some everyday, adult to kid questions to even things out before asking something leading about home life, the girl's siblings and such. The girl seemed to accept what was going on around her as everyday things that everyone else went through as well. The home had no power, but they had water. There was some food, but it didn't sound like a lot. The girl was almost manic with some of her responses, her voice sounding excited and entering a higher pitch over questions that shouldn't really elicit that sort of response. Cindy asked if she liked her counselor, and the girl indicated she did, but she didn't like the way some of the medications made her feel. Eventually the girl was sent back to class, and the only sound was Cindy tapping on her screen.

From case studies and my own experiences with my brother and Micah, I knew some of the disturbing, sad and downright depressing things kids went through. It made for some fucked up adults. It's sad to think that some people are doomed to a certain level of existence based on who they were born to and where, geographically. It's tough to change things, even if you're in a new city or country, because you still are who you are with your upbringing, whatever that was, and whatever education you had.

What was tough, from where I sat, was trying to be empathetic to their situation while trying to not let that be an excuse to hold them back. I can't always keep it in my head where Micah's coming from, and I've wondered sometimes if he wouldn't be better off with people who weren't so busy with school, trying to be adults when – I could see more every day – we were still kids in a lot of ways. I try to think about what my parents would do in a given situation, sometimes, and can't help feeling like we're falling short.

I gave my parents a hard time, but I never told them 'fuck you' like Micah did to me just that morning. I don't know if it's a generational thing, if it's due to how Micah has been raised to this point or what. Sometimes things are just part of who you are, or some things become bigger parts of your personality because of your experience.

The thing is...him saying that to me stings. It shouldn't. People get mad. People disagree. Right now he's all caught up because of this girl, and I get that – the feeling. Like this is important and it's where he wants to be. I hate having to be responsible and say no to him. Maybe I'm just not great parent material.

“Oh...kay,” Cindy said quietly and set her tablet down. “So our next step is to reach out to the therapist and the other siblings before we speak to the parents. Her little sister also goes to this school, but I think the brother is in kindergarten, so he may or may not be here. Let's check with the school, and then we'll see what our next steps are. Any questions?”

I shook my head. “It's just sad what people put kids through.”

She sighed. “They were probably raised that way themselves and don't see the harm. They figure this is how it is and that they turned out all right, though of course from the outside we can see that they are anything but all right.”

I nodded. “Can't argue. I know my little brother went through some bad things, but he came through pretty well. I think he got the right mix of support and acceptance, but he was also easy to love.”

“Children who need love most ask for it in the most unloving ways,” Cindy replied, crossing her arms.

I blew out a breath. “Yeah, I know that for a fact. Just this morning Micah told me eff you.”

“Charming. What's his story? You seem unusually young to have a placement.”

I turned a bit side to side in my chair. “I was working at a pizza place in Albany. Went to throw out some old product, and he was dumpster diving. He'd run away from a foster home up north and hitched his way to the city. He was kind of like...a wild animal, honestly. I gave him some food, kind of gained his trust, and got some legal advice as to how we could help him.” I frowned and laughed a little. “He can be such a jerk, but he really pulled on our heartstrings.”

“Our?'

I nodded. “My husband and I.”

“You're married. In college. And have a foster placement.” She said this as a statement, though her tone had more than a trace of disbelief.

“Yep. Guilty on all three counts.” I sighed. “The county decided that putting him elsewhere would be more damaging than letting him try to grow with us.” I winced. “Sometimes, I admit...I don't know if we do enough or what else to do.”

“You're doing what you can,” Cindy said. “The biggest thing you can do, and I say this with a lot of broken kids around me, is to be there for them. To let them know you have their back. You're going to screw up. You might wonder if you're making things worse for them, but you're not. Yes, their life is hard and not the way we'd like anyone's life to go – but they can do an awful lot if they have even one person they can rely on. If he has two – even if he sometimes shows his ass and says things like that – then he's going to be better off than he would have been, whatever mistakes you might make.”

Feeling one last bit of...I don't know, insecure resistance to the idea of the responsibility I live with, I played my last card. “I just wonder if...we're enough. If someone might be a better fit.”

She smiled. “Honestly, sure. There might be someone that specializes in the kind of trauma he has, maybe has a work schedule where they can always be on hand at any time. Maybe even with more money so they can afford whatever is required.” She tilted her nose down and looked at me. “But that's a perfect situation in an imperfect world. If you stepped aside, thinking – or claiming – it was for his own good, that perfect situation would almost certainly not develop. Instead he'd end up in a facility and get far worse, learn new ways to do bad things and start down a life that probably ends short.

“Look. These kids we – you and I – are signing up to help have a lot stacked against them. Even if everything breaks the right way, they may still not do well in life.” She gave me a tired shrug. “We can't save the world. The ones we can help, we do our best – and no one can ask any more of us than that.”

I nodded slowly, trying to let that sink in. I'd heard versions of it, not always pointed at Sasha and myself. Usually we put a good face on things and just keep grinding, but it's exhausting.

“Do you have a picture?” she asked, breaking my thought process.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, pulling out my phone. “This is him.”

“Oh,” she said, a smile stretching across her face. “He's a heartbreaker, I bet. I see so much devil in that smile!”

I chuckled. “My mom says I'm getting the mom curse coming true. She says moms tell their kids they hope they have kids just as difficult as they were.”

She handed the phone back to me and smiled. “And is he as tough as you were?”

“Eh,” I grunted, putting the phone away. “He has his days.”

She tapped her fingernails on the table and stood up. “Okay. Let's see if the other kids are in school and make a call to the therapist.” I followed her into the office and stood by as she checked with the attendance person about the younger siblings. Apparently the middle sibling, a sister, hadn't come to school that day, and the youngest had morning kindergarten, so he was gone already.

We headed back out to her car, and Cindy placed a call to the therapist. “Hi, Kim, it's Cindy. How are you?”

“Oh, perfect timing. It's packed today, but I ran over to get a doughnut – they left some in the break room,” she said. “I got your message from last night. I'm not sure where you are in your follow up; I can send you some notes if you like, but what do you need from me?”

Cindy filled the therapist in quickly, and the therapist let out an audible sigh.

“I recognize the school has concerns,” she said in a tone that made it plain she didn't share those concerns. “The mother is very unsure about making any med adjustments right now, though she admits the oldest is a handful. Her diagnosis does have her on a mix that takes a bit of time to settle into a therapeutic combination, but I think we're getting there. We need to give this family some more time.”

Cindy bit her lower lip and then said, “Has the daughter brought up any fears about speaking about her parents or their actions?”

“She mentioned something early on, but we had a session with the parents and laid that to rest,” she replied.

I'm sure my eyes were about to fall right from my head, as bugged out as they must have been.

“Okay, because the school nurse brought that up today.”

“The girl has a lot of things to say, from her perspective. That doesn't always mean they are true, and we've had to spend a lot of time working on the difference between truth and the things that she, frankly, just says.”

“Uh huh,” Cindy replied, not sounding convinced.

“Cindy, like I said, I think this family is making progress, and really, you can't take this girl's word for anything, for the most part. Her story can change within the same session. It's just not reliable.”

Cindy pursed her lips and nodded as she thanked Kim for her time and hung up.

I cleared my throat. “That sounded pretty biased.”

Cindy glanced at me and shook her head as she started the car and pulled her tablet out. “You'll find that getting to the truth is very difficult. People will frequently put out blanket statements like 'children should always be believed' or that 'from the mouths of babes' chestnut. The fact is there are very few absolutes, and as much as we want to take things at face value, you have to put in the work to find the closest thing to the truth you can.” She made a couple of taps on her tablet, then closed the case and wedged it between the center console and the side of her seat.

“In a perfect world everyone would focus on the best thing for everyone, and we'd all agree what that is. The law says one thing, and then everyone shades it with meaning – even me. Don't think I'm trying to say I know best,” she said, giving me a crooked smile. “But facts are facts. The therapist thinks the way they are doing things is the best route to healing the family. I have to look at if keeping the family physically together is the correct thing, and if I disagree with the therapist, then I have to present that in court. Then the judge has to weigh not only those two points of view, but also whatever the parents may say and what the school may say.”

I looked down at my hands for a minute. “I guess it puts my opinion about keeping broken families together too long in perspective.”

“Sure. It always pays to remember yours isn't the only opinion. Even if yours is based on evidence that you've experienced, someone else may be doing the same thing – but adding in training, like you'll do in this kind of job.” She sighed. “Okay, let's head on over to the family home and see what we see.”

As Cindy drove, tapping her fingers on the wheel completely out of time with the music on the radio, I looked out the window. This is an old city, as are many of the towns in New York. Sometimes you can go to bigger cities and see the mix of the very, very old with the very, very new. Not old like the Italians or Greeks or Egyptians. Nothing like the ancient civilizations that rose and fell around the world. You wouldn't find anything like...Angkor Wat, for instance.

Micah had done a report on Angkor Wat at the beginning of the year. I thought back, the conversation Sasha and I had after Micah was in bed one night. We were wrapping up what school work we had for the night – not that we were finished with the work; we were just done for the moment.

“Did you read Micah's report?” Sasha asked me as he put his feet up and let his head fall back against the couch.

“A little,” I replied, turning myself to put my head in his lap so I could look up at his face when he eventually leaned forward. “I sometimes wonder if he uses grammar and spelling to distract from how smart he is.”

Sasha's body shook, and he moved his gaze to my face. “No. Just never got the reinforcement.” Sash sighed and did what I'd hoped he would, running his fingers through my hair. “My dad used to give me so much shit about getting things spelled correctly and not having run-on sentences.”

“I thought he valued cooking more?” I teased.

“Well, he'd only tell me the last thing you wanted was to get the wrong ingredient because the word wasn't legible,” he'd replied with a chuckle. “But I remember one day I came home from school. Remember Mr. Gentry?”

I groaned.

“Yep,” he said, chuckling again. “You do. So he did this thing on his blackboard where we had to come up and write in the words for famous quotes or from an answer in the homework. He liked to change it up.”

“He let me put a quote up once,” I said.

“Liar,” he said, giggling a little. “No teacher would have been dumb enough to give you that kind of power.”

I grunted, but didn't challenge him.

“Anyway. This kid got up to the board and filled in the blank in the sentence, and I can't even begin to tell you how badly he misspelled the word. And here I come home telling my dad, and he said, ‘You see how you think he's dumb for misspelling the word? That's how others will think if you do it, too. So take your time and do your best to get it right.’ ”

“Sort of mean? Especially for your dad.”

“Eh. I didn't take it that way at the time. I see your point, but I was thinking – later – about how we all laughed when Gentry erased the word he'd written and stood up there with him, helping him get the spelling correct. The kid was embarrassed, and Gentry didn't make it a big thing, it was just because we were all looking at them.” He paused, but his fingers never stopping their stroking through my hair. “But it makes you think about judging, I guess. I know I judge. We all do. But that kid wasn't dumb for making a spelling mistake, but when people make a lot of them, kind of like when people speak slowly or a few other things, we might think they aren't very smart.”

“Unless they wear red hats. Then we know,” I added.

Sasha smiled sadly. “Yes. Then we know. But Micah...probably feels dumb a lot. It can turn people off learning if they think they'll just fail at it, so why bother? But when you read his report, you see how far he went in – how interested he got – at the idea of a whole city, a civilization, just...walked away from. Slowly being swallowed by the jungle.”

The memory faded as we hit a pot hole, and I was again confronted with the tall buildings on the horizon, a big difference to the run-down row houses we were passing. Zip codes can sometimes ensure we don't rise very far in our own society. Oh, sure, sometimes people make it. They call it the American Dream, but the more I see of society the more I wonder how anyone buys into “just work hard and things will work out.”

We were soon out of the city proper and into a more rural area. There was a big difference between one home and the next, much like the taller buildings in downtown and the row houses had been. Some homes were well maintained and had mown lawns and trimmed hedges, where others were in disrepair, untended shrubs and weeds choking off the area around the building.

Cindy pulled into one of the latter, parking behind a mini-van with rusted rocker panels and a pickup truck with a crooked bed. Cindy shut the car off and pulled the tablet from its space between the console and the seat.

“One thing I will remind you of when we go in, because this is your first time. Don't pass judgments on the state of the home – everyone has different standards. We are looking at safety issues, but not if they have laundry piled up or dishes in the sink. Above all, make sure you keep things neutral and don't escalate things. Okay?”

Wondering why she'd say that to me – because it felt personal – I asked, “Has that happened before?”

She let out a long breath through her nose and looked at the house through the windshield. “Me. My first time in a really bad house. “The smell and the...disorganized...out of control feel of the whole place.” She turned toward me. “We get used to a certain, acceptable way to live. I know in class you've heard about case studies and the things workers have found. War stories, if you will. But this is real, and we are here to help these people, so we can't look down on them.”

I nodded. “I got it.”

“Okay then.”

We climbed from the car, and I trailed Cindy, focusing on getting my mind into a state where I wouldn't do something stupid – which is harder than you might think. I glanced at the house and focused on the safety things that we'd covered in class – look for broken windows, exterior damage or other hazards. I realized the structure was a mobile home, as my brain started to work a little again. The outside wasn't in terrible shape, but it was clearly worn. Trees hung over the squat structure, and moss grew thickly on the roof. Small plants sprouted from the gutters, and only one window had a screen in place, one that was torn and hanging out of the frame.

Cindy knocked on the door, and there was a 'sproing' kind of sound, sort of like the tension being taken off a spring. Two or three floorboard squeaks and the front door opened, revealing a very thin man with a scraggly beard and watery eyes.

“Hi, Jonah. How are you today?”

He didn't look pleased to see Cindy. He flicked his gaze to me and then back to her. “'Lo. We have a visit on the books? I don't remember one.”

“No, I'm afraid not, Jonah. We had a hotline call, and you know I have to follow up on those things,” Cindy said, sounding as if she were regretful to bother him.

“Well. Everything's fine.”

“I'm sure, but you know how this works. Can I come in, please? Are the little ones at home? I heard your middle daughter was sick,” she said, moving into the door frame. Jonah stepped back to allow her entry, and I wondered if this was a tactic she used often to gain entry, just stepping up like it was a foregone conclusion.

“Who're you?” he asked me with suspicion.

“He's with the county today,” Cindy said and smoothly moved on. “Jonah, is your wife home?”

He looked at me with mistrust and then turned his attention to Cindy. “She's got one o' her migraine things. Trying to keep things quiet.”

“Oh, sure,” Cindy said, lowering her voice a little. “I'm sorry to hear that. Where are the kids? They're very quiet.”

He pressed his lips together. “They're nappin'. They know to keep quiet when she's got one of those things.” He turned slightly. “Can't even watch the damn tee vee. Says the frequency of the signal hums in her head.” He looked back at Cindy. “I think it's bullshit. She's probably makin' it up.”

“Oh, I know what you mean, Jonah. I have a cousin that's all about the 5G.”

“Shit'll give you cancer,” Jonah replied.

“Well, let's just be quiet and peek in on the kids.”

“I don't wanna wake 'em,” he said, lifting his chin up.

“I understand. Let's just be quiet, okay?”

Jonah shifted. “No. Rather not.”

Cindy tilted her head then pulled out her tablet and started to tap the screen.

“What're you doing? You know I hate that.”

She looked at him over the screen. “I know you do. But I also know that you know how this works. You're already on a plan with the county. If you won't comply, I have to call the police, and I have to make notes on you refusing.”

He took a step toward her and tried to loom, and I moved closer out of habit. “They'll wake.” His voice wasn't as confident or quite as threatening, despite his posture.

“That would be unfortunate, but I have to see them.” She looked back at him steadily. “Are they in the front room?”

They stared at each other for an endless moment. If it were a movie or an episode of COPS, he'd be getting ready to assault her, but he seemed to shrink the tiniest bit, his shoulders dropping, and he nodded. Cindy shifted her gaze to me.

“Alec? Please check that door behind you. The kids should be...napping.”

I glanced at him once more and then nodded, turning to cross the cluttered room. As I did, my thoughts churned with images of Lu as a kid, how his mother's house must have been like this. How she'd chased him with a knife. How Micah must have lived in a place like this – and how it would follow him, maybe for the rest of his life.

I placed my hand on the doorknob, which felt a little loose in my hand, and gently turned it. I suppose my mind had conjured up a small bedroom, probably messy with clothes and stuff. I expected maybe to find a single dirty mattress on the floor with two kids, probably dirty, sleeping. Or maybe quietly playing, knowing the smallest sound would bring adults in to provide a chaotic form of discipline.

For a mere moment I couldn't sort what I was seeing, but then it was kind of like a bad joke and a horror story all in one. I've made a few cracks in my day about kids being on leashes – how some kids look like they couldn't have benefited. Hey, I'm not entirely even against them. You get distracted for a few moments – just regular, everyday something that breaks your focus – and your kid is gone. They run off, they see a shiny and forget the world exists. Maybe someone was being an opportunist, and they take that kid, and who knows what happens from there. So I don't think they're all bad.

This was bad.

Inside the room were wire dog cages. Small ones. Probably work okay for a medium sized dog, or a little kid. Like the ones I saw looking back at me.

The boy started to bark, but the little girl just looked at me like I wasn't supposed to be there – which I suppose I wasn't.

“Um. Cindy? The kids are here. But, uh.”

She stepped up beside me, hissed out something that wasn't very nice, and told me to get them out of there. I'll be honest, the thought had crossed my mind, but I figured it was better for the kids – long term – if Cindy saw them. I was nobody here.

“I'm going to pee on you,” the little boy said as I reached for the handle to open the crate.

“You know, I'm going to let your sister out first,” I told him and flipped the two latches holding her door closed. “Why'd you stay in there? You can work those latches from inside.”

“Mommie has a migraine,” the little girl said as if telling me water is rain. “We go in the quiet boxes when that happens.”

“I'm going to pee on you!” the boy said again, reaching for the front of his shorts.

“Do that and you'll have a funny shaped earring,” I muttered. “Come on.”

I herded them into the living room, and I went through the saddest thing I think I've ever seen. Kids clothes going into garbage bags, two adults who looked like they had perhaps three brain cells between them – oh yeah, Mommie was up. The boy was hollering and running, and the mother was offering him candy if he'd settle down. I mean....

This wasn't just sad. It was depressing. The parents were terrible, but they looked like they just...couldn't do better. It'd be easy – it was even tempting – to just say they didn't care or were just bad, evil people. Granted, they weren't far off – they were doing bad things. Does it really matter if there is intent or simple ignorance? Or was it stupidity – the refusal to learn to do better. Either way, I couldn't find much sympathy for them, and I had no idea how, as a social worker, you were supposed to knit this family back together. How do you even begin?

I was also surprised the parents weren't putting up more of a fight about things, and I wish I could say why for sure. Maybe they'd been here before and just felt like they were getting on the merry-go-round of social service programming again. Maybe they just didn't know what to do. Maybe...I don't know. I really don't.

At some point the police showed up. I honestly don't know how that happened. Maybe Cindy called when I wasn't paying attention – and to be honest, I was half checked out. Maybe to protect myself from something that was just so damn sad. Sure, I'd read case notes, and we'd had people present to a class, but there was a huge difference between hearing about abuse and seeing it first hand. No, maybe these kids didn't have bruises – at least not on the surface.

Of course, where my mind went, though, was to Lu and Micah. A lot gets made of how easy Lu was. I love Lu. He's got a huge place in my heart. I couldn't help but wonder, after going through so many classes, about his internals. Really, it's hard not to apply the things you're studying to people around you. I'd imagine it's worse for psychotherapists or similar headshrinker types. But with Lu...there was a certain amount of people-pleaser built into him. Lu – and anyone who cared about him – was so lucky that the person he fell for was Robin, who had no desire except to make Lu as happy as Lu made Robin. Had he fallen for someone who'd had some kind of...desire to twist Lu in on himself, I think they'd have had some success.

Micah was a different barrel of monkeys. Where the things that happened in Lu's life made him scared and maybe more pliant in some ways, Micah had turned angry and hard. A lot of things were a zero-sum game for him, and he had a hard time shifting out of an “if you're not for me, you're against me” mindset. When he...forgot to be combative, you saw who he might have been had his mother not been who she was.

I may be biased, but she was evil. You can blame a lot on stupidity or ignorance, but when you put cigarettes out on your kid...you're evil. I can only imagine the damage that's done to Micah long term and how hard it is for him to trust longer than a few interactions. I'm sure, even now, he still doesn't trust us sometimes. I know he sometimes confuses the idea of trust with just letting him do as he pleases. It's hard for him to see that distinction, and I know I've paid close attention when Sasha and I have talked to my parents or his about the things we go through with him.

It's hard to differentiate between normal kid shit and the more serious side of fucked up his mother dished out to him.

“Okay, let's get these things to the car, okay?” Cindy was saying. I snapped back to the present and picked up the garbage bags filled with these kids' clothes, hefting them once and trying to smile at the kids as we walked out to Cindy's car.

“Alec, there are two car seats in the trunk,” Cindy said. I glanced toward the open front door of the house, thinking the parents might be watching, but no. Probably still talking to the cop. I put the stuff in the trunk while Cindy wrestled with the very active little boy, who was threatening to pee on her. Equal opportunity pisser, I guess. The little girl trailed behind Cindy, watching her brother threaten urinary hell and commenting loudly to Cindy that her brother would do it – had done it before.

Coming around the car, I set the car seats on the floor of the car and squatted down, looking the little terrorist in the eye.

“You know what pees harder than you?”

He stopped and stared, a smile that was pure mischief spreading across his face. “What?”

I delayed as Cindy took the opportunity to start strapping in the first safety seat. “Well, you might be able to guess. Want to try?”

“A dog!”

“Well, dogs pee on a lot of stuff, I'll give you that much,” I said with a polite chuckle. “But a lot doesn't mean, you know, going hard. Know what I mean?”

He shook his head and blurted, “A bird!”

I scratched my head. “Well, birds are usually known more for pooping on things, right?”

“A bird, it happened, a bird is pooped on this...this gwirl at school!”

I dropped my jaw. “A gwirl? You mean like a girl that twirls around? I've never seen one of those! You saw one? Really?”

He smiled wider and nodded his head like it was on a spring.

“Okay, let's get this little tushie into a car seat,” Cindy said, holding her hand out. The little girl moved past her brother with some suspicion on her face, so I looked back at him to make sure he stayed engaged with me instead of doing something I was sure he was entirely capable of – like flinging his poo.

“So do you still want to guess? Or do you give up?”

“Umm,” he said, rolling his eyes around as if looking at his brain for an answer. “An ewephant!”

“You know what?” I asked, leaning in a little closer. He leaned in too, jumping up and down a little. “An elephant can pee so hard that it can-”

“Okay! Let's get this fellow to the other side. This seat goes in a little easier,” Cindy said, cutting me off. I don't know what she thought I was going to say, but it didn't matter, because the kid decided this was the perfect time to try and squeeze in between the tire and the fender.

“Uh. You're not going to fit.”

“Yuh huh!”

I reached in and tried to get a grip, and that kid shrieked. I mean, this was the shit people heard at night and started legends like the Banshee.

“Come on, little dude,” I muttered and tried to get my hands around his middle. He started to shriek and laugh all in one – I guess I was tickling him. I lifted him by his waist and must have looked a little like that scene in the Lion King holding up the newborn Simba, but Simba didn't wiggle nearly as much.

“Put me down! Down!” he demanded.

I considered dropping him.

“Okay! In we go,” Cindy said briskly. I was impressed she'd maintained her focus through all that noise. I plopped the little shit flinger into the seat and buckled him in. He hadn't gotten any quieter. We were headed down the road moments later, but the day was far from over. I wish I could say...well, anything that made me feel better. But honestly it was all kind of bleak. We got the kids some food back at the office, and Cindy was calling up her foster parent list, looking for space for these two and their sister – because, oh yeah, the other one was still at school.

When her options were exhausted she put in requests at the fostering agencies her county had contracts with. In the end there wasn't a home for all three kids at once, and they were separated. We had to pick the oldest up from school and take her to a home with her garbage bag of clothes that her mother had put together for her. Then there were forms and filing and paperwork.

Whatever I'd had in mind, any speculation I might have made about how this day would go...I couldn't have pictured this. Just how awful people can be to each other, to the most vulnerable of us. I was drawn into a relentless circle of thoughts – those cages, the lack of power at the home, Micah and the burns on his back, Lu and his mom chasing him with a knife. How do we ever move on?

“Boy, I tell you what,” Cindy said, leaning back into her chair and stretching. “I need a warm bath and a glass of wine.”

“Doesn't sound like the worst thing,” I replied.

She straightened up and put her hands on her desk. “So. A full day in the field. Are you thinking of quitting?”

I snorted. “I don't even have a job yet. But...how do you do it? I mean today was...just awful.”

“Yeah,” she said with some sympathy. “There are situations like that all over. Some worse than that.” She sighed. “It's all relative. People like to gauge what's worse – physical, mental, sexual. They argue about which is harder to overcome. They like to belittle some of it, try to make it sound like it's not abuse. The facts are that everyone reacts differently, and what breaks one hardens someone else.”

I shook my head slowly.

“I know. That doesn't really answer your question.” She sucked on her teeth for a moment and then laced her fingers together and gave me a smile. “Lots of kids I work with will end up back in the same cycle I'm trying to help them survive now. Poverty. Addiction. But that doesn't mean their story never gets better – that it can't. There are people who get the support they need, who use that support to make themselves a life.” She nodded to me. “So yes, days like today are bleak. We help make change for tomorrow. Tonight those kids are sleeping in strange places with strangers. Over time they will come to trust these strangers, somewhat. Enough to show their bad behaviors and the nasty things they learned to survive or to get their way.”

I nodded slowly. “We always have goals and wants. Always trying to find a way to get them.”

“We don't always think of the consequences,” she said quietly. “Either good or bad. I'm sure there are days with your placement that you have to wonder what in the world you're doing.”

I sighed and rubbed my palms over my thighs. “Yeah. Thought's crossed my mind.”

She nodded. “You'd be stupid not to wonder, which would be disappointing. The answer is you're changing his tomorrow by putting up with who he is today. The thing is...you're not weak or stupid to wonder if you're doing enough or if you're overmatched. The ones that worry me,” she said and cleared her throat. “The ones that really worry me are the ones that are sure of themselves. Thinking the training they got in a classroom is how the real world works. That they can refer to a text book in the field or that they can hit an academic source to know what to say or do in any given situation. Training is only part of it; the rest is human intelligence and compassion.”

I cleared my throat. “So. What'll happen to the kids we saw today?”

“Court, first. All parties will make their case. An agency will help them get their power turned on. The counselor, as you heard, will probably recommend therapy and reunification. I'll have to consult with my boss, but the neglect will likely be something we'll try to manage as...well, kids their age getting adopted are rare. Much higher chances they don't bond with families; they have background issues that make them more difficult psychologically, socially... Realistically, there aren't very many people that would take them on.” She clasped her hands together. “People want babies.”

“That's....”

She nodded sadly. “You know firsthand how tough older kids can be, and let's be honest – the teen years are tough all the way around. Too many people like to have opinions, but the reality is most of them won't step up to help. My job? It'll burn me out. I know that. I have to be able to recognize when that time comes and be ready to make a move to preserve myself; you can't save someone from drowning if they are pulling you down, too. We are...overworked and underpaid and undervalued. The population we serve suspects us and rarely welcomes us into their lives.” She leaned forward a bit. “But sometimes, we make a difference. It's the sometimes that keeps me showing up to work.”

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^

I pulled up in front of our home and turned the car off. I yawned as I climbed from the car, wondering if this is what it felt like to work a full time job every day and to then have to come home to whatever issues were stirred up during the day. I felt old.

I walked into our apartment and smelled something cooking. Sasha was on the couch in the living room, legs crossed and his laptop resting on his knees while he read something. He glanced up at me and smiled, leaning forward to put his computer on the beat-up coffee table.

“How'd your day go?” I asked, hopping over the back of the couch to land next to him. “How was your test?”

“He graded it in front of me. I passed. Eighty-nine,” he said, leaning in and giving me a kiss. “What about you? How was your day?”

I shook my head. “Hard. I'll tell you about it later. I don't want to think about it right now.”

“Okay,” he said softly. We sat together for a few minutes, just holding each other. I wonder if my parents ever did this, if they just came home happy to be together again. Realizing this is why we go out to work all day – not just for what the work may give us, but for the love we get to come home to. To recharge ourselves to go out into the world again and try to make a difference.

“Where's all our troubles?” I asked, my lips pressed to his hair.

“In his room. He's still mad.” Sasha leaned back a little to look at me. “He thinks we're both just not trusting him right now.”

I nodded and let out a breath. “What's that I smell cooking?”

“Stuffed peppers. Should be ready in about twenty minutes.”

I nodded again. “Okay. Well. I'm going to get this over with.”

Sasha sighed. “What are you going to say?”

I stood and looked down at him and my heart felt larger. If anyone ever wondered where my soul was, it's in him. “I'm going to try the truth. Go from there.”

I went down the hall and tapped on his door before opening it, just in case he had his pants down or something. “Hey, Little Bit,” I said.

He was flopped on his bed with his earbuds in, scrolling through his phone. He gave me a one shoulder shrug in acknowledgment. I stepped over his shoes and a sweatshirt on his floor and sat beside him, putting my hand on his back and starting to rub. He lay still, letting it happen. I knew touch was an important thing for Micah, and he was probably struggling with being soothed by the touch and being angry with me. I thought about what he and I had said to each other the past day or so and what Cindy had said to me about why she keeps showing up – for tomorrow.

Micah shifted beside me, moving into a sitting position, his legs cocked between us. Not pushing me away, but breaking the contact of me rubbing his back.

“I'm not sorry,” he said, a note of defiance in his voice.

I nodded. “Well. What you said this morning was kind of over the line. You know how I feel about you swearing at me.”

He shifted a little, and a small wince appeared on his features. “Um. Un-fuck you?”

I bobbed my head side to side and then pressed my bottom lip up. “Okay. I can start there,” I said and sighed, putting my hand on his ankle. “Look. I can give you tons of examples about how much we love you and have trusted you in the past. We like to talk to you like a human and explain things, but you also understand that doesn't mean you're going to like it or agree with it. Right?”

“But how is this not just you guys not trusting me?” he said, a whine entering his voice.

I nodded again. “Okay, so there's not just one thing involved in this. You know, much as I love you and I love us giving each other shit and how I try to make good memories with you – stuff you can always keep – that I have a re-r...man, I hate this word.” I held a finger up to him. “I swore to myself I'd never have any! I always got told things were my responsibility and I had to be responsible, and look! Look at me! I have a responsibility to you. To look ahead, to protect you, to teach you and try to guide you. Sometimes, Micah, sometimes it looks like I don't trust you. Sometimes it doesn't look fair, but let me lay a few things out for you. Okay?”

He shifted again, and I let go of his ankle. He moved his legs to the other side and leaned a bit closer to me.

“So here it is. Some things...you just don't do. Like wearing a red shirt and green pants.”

He frowned. “How is that-”

I held a finger up. “I'll get there. Just...follow what I'm saying.”

He rubbed under his nose and nodded at me to continue.

“Okay, so, if you go to school in a red shirt and green pants, people notice, right? Holy shit, bro! Got dressed by someone who can't let Christmas go, right? The thing is, everything we do has consequences. So maybe people remember how that person was dressed. They could look amazing the next day, but people will still say something about the one crappy way they dressed because they needed to do laundry.”

“Wait. Did you do this?”

“Don't get bogged down in details. We're taking big picture here,” I said. “Now you're asking about staying over at this girl's house. So if I tell you a high school boy is staying overnight at his girlfriend's house, can you honestly say you think they won't try something?”

“But I'm not!”

“Hang on, I'm saying if you heard about that, would you think something was probably going on?”

He let out an impatient breath. “I see what you're saying; I'm just not doing that.”

“Okay, and I believe you – I do!” I held up a finger again. “But. If you hear some guy at school is sleeping over at his girlfriend's, then what do people say about that girl?”

He blinked at me a few times and then looked to one side. “It wouldn't be like that.” His voice was soft, but I think he got it.

“Everyone would get a reputation out of that. It wouldn't just be with other kids. Parents would find out and judge you – and you never know if that affects you later on or not.” I let out a slow breath. “But honestly, Micah, as much as I love you and as much as I do trust you, the reality is you're a teenage boy with oodles of hormones, and she's a girl in the same spot. Maybe you're right and nothing happens, but not only will people assume...if things did get out of control, that opens up more things you – and honestly, we – aren't ready for.”

He shifted into more of a sitting position and looked down at his hands. “You're right. I don't like it,” he said quietly.

“I want you to understand...I know I can't stop you from doing things you probably shouldn't. I understand, better than you do right now, what the consequences of following your heart – and let's be honest, your dick – would mean right now. Not that you planned it, but man...it would feel right in the moment. Then for a few weeks you'd be thinking about doing it again. But then she's late on her period, and you'll be terrified. You'll get this...overwhelming feeling that your life is out of control and that you might... It's tough. Micah. We're trying to guide you, not control you.”

He nodded. “Okay, Dad. I get it.” He looked up at me. “I don't like it. Not at all. But I get it.”

I nodded, feeling jittery. “Okay.”

He swallowed. “How was your day? Big waste of time?”

I moved over and pulled him to me in a hug. He wrapped his arms around me, and I held my boy. “It was terrible, Micah. It was terrible. I thought about you all day, and...I feel like it's the kind of work that's going to break me, one day. But I think about you and realize that sometimes...that...someone has to do it. Someone has to try to be there for kids like you.”

Amusement entered his voice. “You mean pains in the ass?”

I squeezed him harder. “I mean kids that just need to know someone loves them. I love you. So much, Little Bit.”

He tightened his grip.

Okay. This was today's fight, and Cindy was right – doing this today should make his tomorrow better. Maybe it will make mine better, too.

The End