Page 20 of Deadly Knight (The Bratva’s Elite #2)

“Melanie seems so much more shut down than she did two months ago. I’m worried about her, because she’s not going out with friends anymore. She spends a lot of the time in her room. It’s unlike her.”

“Did something change in her life around that time?” If the mother answers how I suspect, the child’s behavioural changes are most likely linked to an event in the family home. “Changes in family dynamics, a death…” I trail off after offering examples.

The mother shifts in the oversized seat across from me and stares at the travel mug in her grip.

Discomfort radiates off her, which is so often the case when parents enter my office wanting me to “fix” their child, as though I have some magic wand or something, without considering the bigger picture—the why behind it.

Behaviours don’t change without reasons for them to.

After a long sip from her drink, the child’s mother readjusts her position again. “She witnessed her father and I arguing. Worse than we probably have ever before. It led to him walking out on us.”

Ah. Empathy for little Melanie, a nine-year-old child busy elsewhere in this building, fills me. I jot a quick note on my pad, underlining the point a few times to signal its importance for later.

“She was fine afterwards,” the mother rushes to add, defending her parenting.

With a gentle smile, I nod, reassuring her that I believe her—which I do—and explain, “It was new. Major events like that, changes in the family home, could take time to develop into emotions. She may have been in denial for the first while, or didn’t understand what was happening and assumed her father would be home another time.

Hours turned into days, days into weeks, and now she’s realizing the length of time passing, and that’s why she’s behaving differently. ”

The mother’s countenance falls, but she releases a big sigh. “I guess that makes sense. She’s always had both of us around and doesn’t know anything else.”

“Exactly.” I write down a few more main points I’ve gathered. “Was that the last time she saw her father?”

Her expression slips again. “Yes, but not from a lack of trying on his part. I, uh, I’m the one preventing him from coming around.”

She’s back to staring at her travel mug. Her fingers rub against one another on her lap, suggesting there’s a lot more to what happened.

I shift forward, resting the pad to the side, and bend a bit closer, altering my tone from curious to caring. “Can I ask, did he abuse either one of you?”

“Not physically,” she whispers. “Or sexually.”

Good. Both mother and child didn’t have to live that horror. I know all too well what that feels like.

“Emotionally?”

She nods. “A lot of verbal abuse. I’m no saint either, don’t get me wrong. That’s why, whenever he calls begging to see her, I don’t want her near him. Who knows what he’ll say to turn her against me?”

I bite back my sigh, almost despising this aspect of the job—when the child is stuck between two parents, both making claims about the other.

There are often three sides to situations like this one—his, hers, and the truth—and it’s the child sacrificing the most. Either way, Melanie loses a parent in this fight.

“You’re protecting yourself too,” I say softly. “And rightly so. You’re here for her, sure, but what about you? How are you doing with these changes? Between the fighting, the split, and now caring for Melanie alone…it’s a lot.”

Her breath comes out a bit stilted, and she takes another small sip before meeting my eyes. “You know, the only person to ask me that since he walked out was my sister, so thank you. Seriously.”

“You don’t need to thank me. Is there any support you need for yourself at this time?

Anything we can do to help? Counselling or otherwise.

” We being the agency we’re presently inside, and the administrative staff that ensures every family receives any necessary support to better their family.

They look at concerns with the kids as familial issues, since we see them for short stints, but who knows what happens after they return to their homes and families.

That mindset is one of many reasons why I took the role as a mental health therapist within this youth centre.

I know all too well that a child’s trauma is often a result of other people’s actions, and they have no control over it.

Being able to support those kids in an environment understanding of how outside influences them is somewhere I’ve come to enjoy working.

The mother shakes her head with a grateful smile and the hint of tears.

Vulnerability seeps into her glassy eyes, but she glances towards the nearby lamp, using the bulb’s brightness to burn away the potential of opening up.

It’s okay, though. The mother’s lived through shit, and it sounds like the father has too.

For now, I’ll support their daughter, and the rest may later fall into place.

“Alright.” I reach into my desk’s filing system and retrieve a consent form.

“If you want me to meet regularly with her, I’ll need you to sign the consent form.

Since legally you both retain custody of Melanie, I will also need to phone him and get verbal consent before I can go forward with counselling for her. ”

“I understand.” She takes the offered pen and signs her name above the line labelled Parent 1. “He loves her, I know he does. He won’t tell you no, I don’t think.”

I take back the signed form. “If you don’t hear from me later today, it means I got his consent. Once I do, I’ll be able to start seeing her. How often do you bring her here?”

“At least once a week, but I’m happy to swing by anytime if it works better for your schedule. Noting in about two weeks, she begins school.”

The time when my summer work hours shift from eight to four to noon to eight to accommodate the kids when they come for after-school programming. The change from summer to fall always throws me.

“I’ll wait until the form is all signed before we set up a time, just in case anything changes between now and then.

I’ll also speak with the program directors to ensure I don’t steal her from a sport or anything she’s actively participating in.

Not sure she’d like me much after that. I also feel the need to warn you, based on what you’ve told me, you may not see results for a long time.

” If ever. “She might not open up to me until she becomes a bit more trusting. Which is fine and normal, by the way.”

“Makes sense.” The mom lifts to her feet.

“I’m extremely grateful for you meeting with me, and for your willingness to help.

I know you’re not allowed to tell me about what you talk about, but you will, right, if something comes up?

Something important.” Her gaze darts to the sign above my head, as though reminding me of my own disclosure requirements.

“Of course,” I reply, standing as well. “Hopefully Melanie’s concerns never come to that. I look forward to meeting her.”

After another parting goodbye, I walk her to the front door of the centre, wave to the admin team behind the front desk, and retreat back to my office.

When the door shuts and there’s absolute silence for the immediate future, I bask in the peace, knowing after lunch, I have an afternoon full of appointments.

For now, I head to my desk and begin typing up notes from the parental intake while finding the contact information for Melanie’s father to call him after lunch.

Lunch is a pre-packed salad I get three bites into when a knock on my door interrupts.

I roll my computer chair to the door, expecting a kid dropping in for a last-minute appointment, but instead finding Nora, one of the sports coaches.

She manages the junior level basketball, soccer, and floor hockey teams.

“You busy?” She pokes her head in and scans the office before deciding for herself I’m not and enters, dropping into a mini chair meant for students. She dwarfs it, stretching her legs out.

Everything about this interaction is very Nora.

She’s outgoing and brash and everything I’m not, but that’s why our barely anything friendship works.

She’s always on the go and I’m not, but I promised my therapist I’d aim for one social outing per month—and she’s become the person who makes it possible.

I hate being social and going outside. It’s scary, because I can never figure out if a person’s stare is because they’re planning something nefarious.

After immigrating to Canada nearly a decade ago, I found the culture and social habits were so different from Russia.

My parents encouraged me to make friends with people in my program and dorm building.

They were becoming friendly with the nice couple owning the house beside their new one and wanted the same for me, but it was easier said than done, especially being the person I was back then.

Everything was so new, and I didn’t handle it as well as I pretended to.

During my degree, I got close to a couple people, but every outing with them required a kind of strength I didn’t possess.

Going out at night was unthinkable, and that was when they preferred to hang out.

I couldn’t, not while keeping my heart in my chest and not panicking at every little noise, or studying every person I passed or interacted with, assuming they were out to get me.

Everywhere I went, everything I did, I saw them .

It wasn’t pleasant. It was terrifying and draining. Being social soon became pointless, and it was simpler to be alone with my memories and nightmares, my nails scratching my lower arm until it bled with the reminder that I was safe and far away from danger.

My roommate, after witnessing one too many nightmares, breakdowns, and me tearing into my arm, suggested visiting a therapist on campus. At first I tuned her out, but later during one of my self-harm episodes, I recalled the psychologist that visited me in the hospital.