the table. All of it made me feel so guilty, but surely I wasn’t the only mom in the world whose kitchen wasn’t sparkling?
“How is your work going?” she asked in a kindly voice, and I said it was fine, even though it was hard to find the time to make beaded bangles and whatnot when Dylan so often needed my attention.
“And you’re homeschooling Dylan?” she continued in that same neutral tone as she came back into the living room, which was also messy. Dylan had got a puzzle out and was putting it together by himself, which I hoped counted for something. He loved puzzles, and fortunately I could usually pick them up for cheap at tag sales.
“Yes, I am.” Which I thought she must already know, because I’d filed an intent to homeschool with the education authority right after her last visit. Not that I actually was homeschooling. Dylan was only six and I figured puzzles and books were enough to occupy him at that age. He knew some letters, and he could write his name. I read him stories and sometimes we colored pictures together. What more did a little boy need?
Susan nodded slowly. She talked a bit about the missed appointments, and encouraged me to go to that support group, and then she smiled at Dylan and said that, despite some challenges, he seemed happy. And then, thank goodness, she left.
That was a year ago. And now I’m sitting in a stale-smelling little room at the police station, the kind of room reserved for suspected criminals, with Dylan asleep on my lap because this whole situation has completely exhausted him. At least he’s not screaming anymore. I’ve seen the side-eye the desk sergeant gave me, that silent, judgmental look which I have become so used to. Usually I get it when Dylan melts down in public, and people assume I’m some lame, lax parent who has no sense of discipline, but getting it from a police officer in the station feels a whole lot worse.
He gave me a look like he thought I beat my child, or neglected him in some awful way, when nothing could be further from the truth. My entire life revolves around Dylan. Whether that’s a good or bad thing might be up for debate, but the truth is I’d do anything for my son, and I’ve sacrificed my whole life for his happiness—gladly.
Because, actually, I wasn’t always like this. A lifetime ago—well, about ten years—I was your normal teenaged girl, from a middle-class family—well, almost—planning to go to Connecticut State, working weekends at the Gap in West Farms Mall, being all cute and chirpy as I folded sweaters. I was a quiet girl, not as shy as Dylan, but definitely not the life of any party, but I had a few friends, and a family, and life felt normal.
How I got from that to this is another story, a pointless one since it happened and some of it was my fault and there is nothing I can do about it now.
Now I just want to get through this and go home with Dylan. I want to curl up on the sofa with him, his head on my shoulder, my arm around him, and read Dinosaurs Before Dark to him three times in a row. And the longer I wait here, the more I’m afraid that isn’t going to happen, at least not anytime soon.
I’ve been waiting in the room for about half an hour when Susan comes in, with her kindly smile and a cup of tea for me. She even remembers how I like it, milky and sweet. I tense automatically, because this all feels just a little too sympathetic, like she’s bringing bad news.
“So, Beth,” she says, and her voice is full of compassionate sorrow.
Oh, no.
I don’t reply, because I feel like anything I say could and would be used against me, but as it turns out, I don’t need to reply, because Susan just shakes her head and says, “As I’m sure you realize, this isn’t working.”
And I don’t ask what she means, because of course I know it already. She means me. Me and Dylan. We’re not working, and for the first time, it seems like DCF is going to actually do something, and I can’t stand the thought, even as I feel a treacherous little flicker of relief. Finally, finally someone is going to help me.