Page 29 of The Silence Between

“Haven't heard anything,” I said, attention already drifting to table six where a customer was signaling for his check.

“You should meet my friend Asher,” Tasha continued, a familiar glint in her eye. “He's a pediatric resident, just moved to town. Smart, funny, single...”

“And I'm busy, exhausted, and definitely not looking,” I finished for her, an old exchange between us.

“All work and no play makes Leo a dull boy.”

“All bills and three kids make dating a fantasy I can't afford,” I countered, but kept my tone light enough to soften the words.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. During shifts, only the kids' schools and our neighbor had this number for emergencies. I pulled it out to check, surprised to see a text from a number I rarely encountered: Mom.

Mom

Can we meet? Have news.

Five simple words that triggered a complex cascade of emotions—wariness, obligation, faded hope, all overlaid with the protective instinct that still governed my limited contact with her. Gloria lived in a halfway house across town now, after years of cycling through rehab, relapse, and homelessness. Our relationship existed in a careful neutral zone—not close, but not entirely severed for the younger kids' sake.

“Bad news?” Tasha asked, reading my expression.

“Just Mom,” I replied, slipping the phone away. “I'll bring your order right out,” I said, already moving to the next table, pushing unwelcome complications back behind the wall of immediate tasks.

Present tense only. That was the rule for survival.

* * *

The plastic chairin Riverton High's guidance office dug into my back as I sat beside Diego, the familiar environment carrying complicated associations. Ten years ago, I'd been the student; now I was the guardian; tonight I'd return as the janitor who cleaned these same offices. Three distinct selves occupying the same space at different times, never quite aligning.

Diego's foot tapped a nervous rhythm against the floor as Ms. Wilson, the guidance counselor, reviewed his academic performance with practiced concern in her voice.

“Diego's verbal comprehension scores are well above grade level,” she explained, “but his processing speed and written expression show significant discrepancies. Combined with his classroom behavior—difficulty staying focused, disrupting others when overwhelmed—it suggests potential learning differences that should be formally evaluated.”

“This has been going on for years,” I added, glancing at Diego's tense profile. “All the moves when they were younger, changing schools four times in two years... he fell behind, and we've been trying to catch up ever since.”

Ms. Wilson nodded sympathetically. “I see from his records he's sixteen but placed in sophomore classes.”

“He should be a junior by age,” I confirmed. “But the learning issues combined with our...unstable housing situation in his early teens meant he repeated eighth grade.”

I turned back to the matter at hand. “What kind of evaluation are we talking about? And what support can the district provide?”

Ms. Wilson hesitated slightly. “The comprehensive neuropsychological testing we'd recommend is typically done privately. It's quite thorough but can be... costly.”

“How costly?” I asked, though I already knew the answer would be beyond our means.

“Around three thousand dollars, generally not covered by basic insurance.”

Diego sank lower in his chair, his lanky teenage frame seeming to fold in on itself, the burden of being a financial problem visibly weighing on his shoulders. I placed a hand briefly on his knee—reassurance without words.

“And without private testing?” I pressed, familiar with navigating bureaucratic systems to find hidden resources.

Ms. Wilson shifted slightly in her chair, glancing down at Diego's file. “There are options, though they're more... limited. The district can conduct an educational assessment, which isn't as comprehensive as neuropsychological testing, but could qualify Diego for an IEP—an Individualized Education Program.”

“How long would that take?” I asked, knowing from experience that 'district resources' often moved at glacial speed.

“The initial evaluation typically takes sixty school days from when we receive written consent.” She slid a form across her desk toward me. “Once the assessment is completed, we'd schedule an eligibility meeting to review the results and determine appropriate accommodations.”

Diego's foot had stopped tapping, his body now completely still—the kind of stillness that meant he was trying to make himself invisible.

“Two months,” I translated, calculating how many assignments he could fail, how many detentions he could receive, how much self-esteem he could lose in that timeframe. “And in the meantime?”

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