Page 56 of Not In The Contract
“That’s control as well,” I told her. “I don’t have to worry that a building I buy has decades old asbestos and a foundation that’s just about ready to crack beneath us.”
“Many of your decisions center around the illusion of control,” she pointed out.
My brows furrowed. “Illusion?” I repeated incredulously.
Her cheeks reddened but she nodded once. “Control is something we search for when faced with trauma,” she said. “It’s a coping mechanism that is commonly associated with disorders as well as CPTSD.”
“And that is?”
“Childhood Post-Traumatic Stress,” she said simply, but my stomach clenched tightly in response. “It’s common in children with foster care in their background. Control gives us the illusion that things won't fall apart. That we can create safe spaces where our past and our triggers won’t hurt us.”
“I don’t recall asking for a therapy session,” I mumbled.
“S-sorry,” she stuttered, her cheeks darker. “It’s a bad habit of mine. Tamera gives me hell about it all the time.”
“It’s fine.” I sighed. “We can get back on topic.”
“Right, so this orphanage,” she said, clearing her throat. “Is it charity or a personal project?”
“Which do you think?” I countered, still a little raw from her psychoanalyzation.
“Personal project,” she said immediately, which impressed me. “I don’t really see you doing things for charity.”
“Yeah?” I smirked. “Why’s that?”
“When wealthy people do charity, they usually do it for publicity and then forget about the cause immediately after it’s done.” She shrugged. “I don’t see you forgetting things that are important to you.”
If whiplash had a face, it’d be mine. “I can’t say I’ve heard that before,” I muttered. “But, essentially, you’re right. About me, at the very least.”
“When did you decide to start construction?”
“About six months ago,” I answered. “It was the first time we had the resources and time to allocate to something new, and I didn’t want to waste the opportunity. So I had my team start the necessary procedures: finding viable plots of land, filling out the paperwork required and all that.”
“Do you have any of the plans?” she asked, her eyes glimmering. “I’d love to see it.”
“I have the final render,” I said. “It’s what the orphanage will look like once it’s done.”
I pulled the render up and turned my screen. “This is the exterior,” I told her. “It’s been designed specifically to house at least five hundred children with an allocation of two adult caretakers for every five children.”
I clicked through the images, and eventually opened the render file of the interior.
“The rooms have been designed per age group,” I continued. “The older the children, the fewer will be in a room. Naturally, there will be children whose needs are different, which is why we’ll be constructing additional apartment buildings on the same plot, particularly for the older children as well.”
“That sounds…” She blinked at the screen, her lips slightly parted. “I don’t even know if incredible is the right word.”
“It’s not enough,” I huffed. “We have entirely too many kids in the system and nowhere near enough resources to properly take care of them. This orphanage is just the first step in a very long journey that might not even be half finished by the time I die.”
“But it’s so much more than what most people are doing,” she said. “It’s further than they’ll ever get. Don’t discount what you’re doing, Alex.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m discounting it,” I said, my lips pursed. “I’d say it was more of a realistic observation. I know that it’s a huge change, but it means nothing to the kids who won’t be affected by it. I’m hoping this is the first orphanage of many.”
“I’m sure it’ll show a lot of people what should be done,” she said.
I wondered how she really felt about it. Considering her mother had grown up in foster care, how might she have turned out if her mom had gotten the care she needed?
“What about you?” I ventured, and she hummed in surprise.
“Me?”
