She never raised her voice in meetings.
She wore soft sweaters.
She posted matching-pajama pictures online and wrote captions about gratitude.
She knew exactly how to make my concern sound like a divorced dad’s resentment.
Once, in the school office, she had tilted her head and said, “Michael is having trouble accepting boundaries.”
The counselor looked at me like I was the unstable one.
Vanessa kept going.
“Eli knows if he complains, Michael reacts. He likes the attention.”
I remember looking at my son through the small office window that day.
He was sitting on a plastic chair with his hands tucked under his thighs.
He looked like he was trying to take up less space than his own body needed.
I did not explode.
I did not accuse her in that office.
I wrote down the date when I got home.
That Sunday, standing in my entryway, Eli looked at the couch and swallowed hard.
