Page 66 of The Silence Between

“Themes would work better for the store displays,” I agreed, pulling out my own scribbled notes. “We could spread them throughout the store instead of just one corner, put student stuff next to published books on the same topics.”

Our conversation flowed easier than I expected. When talking about how to make the showcase work for parents with jobs, I found myself sharing stories about the ridiculous hoops I'd jumped through trying to attend Mari's school events while juggling work and making sure the younger kids were covered.

“We could schedule several short readings across different days and times,” Ethan suggested, actually taking my concerns seriously. “Maybe piggyback on other events already happening at the community center, where people already have rides and childcare figured out.”

After an hour, we had a solid plan hammered out. Timeline, budget, how we'd pick the student work, how we'd set up the displays. The meeting had been surprisingly productive, our shared goal of getting kids excited about writing creating this neutral ground where our complicated past seemed less important.

As we gathered our stuff, Ethan casually dropped, “Diego's been speaking up more in class this week. Whatever you said after our homework session must have boosted his confidence.”

The comment reminded me that Ethan was forming his own relationships with my siblings, completely separate from whatever weirdness existed between us.

“Thanks for working with him,” I said carefully, trying to walk the line between appreciating his help and not encouraging too much family involvement. “The one-on-one attention makes a difference.”

“I'm impressed with how Diego tackles math problems,” Ethan said, shuffling his teaching papers. “He sees connections other kids miss, thinks in patterns that aren't obvious to most people.”

I nodded, feeling that rush of pride that always hits when someone sees my siblings' strengths instead of just our struggles. “He's always been like that. Building crazy-complex Lego structures as a little kid, figuring out patterns before he could even explain them.”

“That kind of natural understanding is rare,” Ethan observed. “Sophie has it with her art too. Different stuff, same gift for seeing what others don't.”

I shifted in the tiny desk, not sure how to handle these observations about my family. Compliments always made me feel weirdly exposed, like someone had accidentally walked in on me in the bathroom.

“They're smart kids,” I said simply, gathering my notes. “Just needed someone to notice.”

“You did more than notice,” Ethan replied, his tone matter-of-fact rather than all mushy. “You made space for their talents to grow despite all the other crap going on. That's good teaching.”

The comparison to his own job caught me off guard. I'd never thought of what I did as teaching, just surviving. The new perspective felt weird but kind of validating.

We awkwardly shook hands at the classroom door in a way that somehow felt both super formal and weirdly intimate at the same time. As I headed out to my afternoon handyman gig, I couldn't shake the unsettled feeling of how naturally the whole thing had gone, how easily our minds still clicked despite a decade apart.

* * *

The empty schoolcorridors at 1:30 AM were like something from a horror movie, every sound amplified to creepy levels. The squeak of my mop bucket, the buzz of fluorescent lights, the occasional bang of the heating system all echoed through the halls. I'd been mopping on autopilot for hours, my mind spinning with worries about Miguel showing up and the upcoming custody review, when the sound of heels clicking on tile snapped me back to reality.

Tasha appeared around the corner, still in her hospital scrubs, looking like she was on a mission.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, immediately worried. Tasha visiting during my night shift wasn't a social call. “Is it Zoe? Your mom?”

“Everyone's fine,” she assured me quickly. “But I needed to catch you before you got home, away from little ears.”

She glanced around the empty hallway, lowering her voice like we were in a spy movie. “Miguel showed up at the hospital again tonight, making a scene in the ER waiting room. When security removed him, he was ranting about seeing 'his kids' and how 'no court could stop him.'”

My stomach clenched. “He's been approaching them at school. Did you know?”

The surprise in her eyes answered before she did. “No, but it fits with what I'm hearing. He's been asking around town for their schedules, claiming sobriety and rehabilitation, saying the system separated him from his children unfairly.”

“He surrendered custody voluntarily,” I said through clenched teeth. “After multiple CPS interventions and failed rehab attempts.”

“I know. But he's spinning a different story now.” Tasha's expression hardened. “What you need to know is that he's not sober. Not even close. He checked himself out AMA last time, refused follow-up care, and based on what I observed tonight, he's still using regularly.”

This perfectly matched what Corinne had been asking about earlier. Miguel was trying to reconnect with the kids, and he was still using. Perfect combo for a custody nightmare.

“There's more,” Tasha continued reluctantly. “I saw him talking with James Townsend in the hospital cafeteria yesterday.”

Townsend. The School Board president who was always going on about “traditional family values” and was rumored to be pushing for privatizing social services to prioritize reuniting kids with biological parents regardless of whether that was a good idea.

“You're sure it was Townsend?”

She nodded. “Positive. They were speaking intensely about something. When they saw me watching, they separated immediately.”

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