Page 8 of Faultlines

“You work too, and you’re always available when I ask,” she replies.

I look away. That says more than anything. She grabs her backpack and heads for the door.

“Love you,” I call out.

Then I hear a muffled, “Love you, too.”

The front door closes behind her. I sip the now-cold coffee in my mug.

Ethan studies me over the rim of his own cup. “You know she doesn’t hate you, right?”

I laugh. “Good. Because I was worried we’d reached that stage already.”

“She just misses you.”

I nod. “I know.”

I barely have time to set my coffee on the desk before my inbox chimes.

8:14 a.m.

I open the email.

By 8:15, I know my day is about to get harder.

I reread the message three times, hoping I’ve misunderstood something. A state budget reduction and temporary funding freeze.

For most, a budget cut is a number on a spreadsheet. For me, it’s therapy sessions for Heidi, a new pair of glasses for Chloe. Physical therapy for Zahara, and the never-ending building repair bills. The needs don’t vanish just because the funding does.

A knock sounds at my office door. “Got a minute?” Marisol, my assistant director, steps in.

One look at my face, and her smile vanishes. “What happened?”

I turn my monitor toward her. She reads the email and swears, a reasonable response, honestly. Everyone in social services eventually learns the same lesson. The need will always persist independent of what funds are available. These girls aren’t statistics or line items in a budget.

The rest of the day is a series of blows. A conference call with state funders that goes nowhere. A text that the main washing machine is flooded again. An email with a roof repair estimate that costs more than our entire quarterly budget for activities. By five, I’m just staring at the numbers, my hands tapping a frantic rhythm on the desk.

Except for some girls listening to music downstairs, the building falls silent by evening. I rest my palms against my desk and stare at the budget spreadsheet one last time before calling it a day.

Dinner at home feels blessedly normal, at first.

Ethan asks Ellie about school. We laugh over a science fair project that caught fire during judging.

Then Ethan passes the salad bowl. “So,” he says casually, looking at Ellie, “Tell me more about the drama program. Have they decided on a play?”

Her face brightens. “Yes! They picked Alice in Wonderland. Then she turns toward me, and I brace myself for what she’s about to ask.

I take a slow sip of water. “Darling⁠—”

“Parents can rotate their time throughout the summer,” she interrupts.

“Mm.” I nod as if thoughtfully considering the proposal.

“You can do just a few afternoons,” she says, her voice full of hope.

I set my glass down. The request itself isn’t unreasonable. But lately, every commitment feels overwhelming. “I’ll try, sweetie.”

“You won’t.” The certainty in her voice stings.