Page 82 of The Silence Between

“And the incidents of aggression?” Townsend pressed. “How do you explain those?”

“Incident. Singular,” I corrected, feeling my careful composure start to crack. “And I'd explain it as a sixteen-year-old responding poorly to targeted harassment about his family situation. Something that should be addressed through appropriate conflict resolution rather than punitive measures.”

“Mr. Reyes, would you say you're often defensive when questioned about your guardianship?” The social services woman's question caught me off guard with its blatant trap.

“I'd say I'm appropriately protective of my family's privacy and dignity,” I replied, my voice getting notably colder. “Just as any parent would be.”

“And your work schedule,” Townsend continued, seamlessly taking the baton. “Three jobs, correct? Including overnight shifts? When would you say you have time to properly supervise Diego's activities?”

“My work schedule is arranged specifically to ensure adult supervision at all times,” I said, feeling heat rise in my face. “Mari is home when Diego returns from school. I'm home in the evenings and mornings.”

“Except when you're working evening shifts at the bookstore,” Townsend noted, glancing at a paper in the folder. “Or early morning shifts at the diner.”

“Which is when Mari is home,” I repeated, a dangerous edge creeping into my voice. “We coordinate schedules precisely to ensure coverage.”

“Mari is barely twenty,” the social worker observed. “Hardly an established adult presence.”

“Mari is a responsible adult and is fully capable of supervising her siblings during the few hours our schedules overlap,” I said, no longer bothering to hide my irritation. “As she has been doing successfully for years.”

“And your father's recent appearances around town?” Townsend asked, changing tactics abruptly. “How has that affected the children's stability?”

“My father's sobriety issues are being managed through appropriate boundaries,” I said tightly, already seeing where this was heading. “The children understand the situation.”

“Do they? Because Diego's outburst today suggests otherwise. Being caught between divided loyalties can create significant emotional stress for teenagers.”

“There are no divided loyalties,” I said, my voice now unmistakably angry. “Miguel surrendered custody voluntarily after multiple failed interventions. The children have clarity about that situation.”

“Yet he's seeking reconnection,” Townsend noted, his tone suggesting this was somehow problematic on my part rather than Miguel's. “And you're preventing that natural family bond from healing.”

“I'm enforcing court-ordered supervised visitation requirements,” I snapped, finally losing the careful composure I'd maintained. “Because I actually give a shit about their wellbeing rather than some fucking fantasy about family reunification that ignores the reality of addiction.”

The room went silent, my profanity hanging in the air between us. Townsend looked momentarily surprised, then satisfied, like he'd accomplished exactly what he'd intended: getting me to lose my cool.

“Your emotional response suggests this is a triggering topic,” the social worker observed with clinical detachment that made me want to scream.

“My emotional response suggests I'm a human being watching you deliberately mischaracterize my family situation to fit some predetermined narrative,” I shot back. “So yeah, that's pretty fucking triggering.”

For twenty minutes, it continued like this—them poking at every vulnerable spot in our family structure, me trying to defend without appearing defensive, them reframing my responses as evidence of instability, me growing increasingly frustrated while trying to maintain enough composure to avoid giving them ammunition. It was like playing chess against three opponents while standing on a tightrope.

“Diego's academic accommodations aren't being consistently implemented,” I pointed out when they circled back to school performance.

“Are you suggesting his teachers are failing him?” Rodriguez asked, sounding genuinely concerned but also uncomfortable being put on the spot.

“I'm suggesting that a system designed for neurotypical students sometimes struggles to consistently accommodate learning differences,” I replied, choosing my words carefully despite my growing anger. “Diego's performance directly correlates with accommodation implementation.”

“Perhaps the accommodations are inadequate,” Townsend suggested. “Or perhaps the home environment isn't structured to support his learning needs.”

“Our home environment is specifically structured to support all of our individual needs,” I countered, my voice getting tighter. “Including dedicated study space, consistent routines, and regular communication with teachers.”

“Yet Diego is clearly struggling,” the social worker observed.

“Diego is a teenager navigating complex social dynamics with learning differences in an educational system that isn't always equipped to support him properly,” I said, feeling my professional veneer starting to crack. “That's not a reflection of inadequate home support; it's a reality many families face.”

“Families with more resources might provide additional supports,” Townsend noted with fake sympathy. “Private tutoring, specialized programs.”

“Families with more financial resources absolutely have advantages in navigating these challenges,” I agreed, letting some bitterness seep into my tone. “But money doesn't equal care or commitment. My siblings have stability, routine, emotional support, and advocates who don't give up on them when challenges arise.”

It was exhausting high-wire work I'd performed countless times before, but today felt different. The coordination between Townsend and social services was too seamless, the documentation too extensive, the trap too well constructed. They weren't just fishing for problems; they were executing a carefully orchestrated plan to build a case against our family structure.

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