Page 16 of The Silence Between

15

MOUNTING PRESSURE

LEO

I scrubbed at the bathtub grout with a toothbrush, my knuckles raw from an hour of working cleaning solution into stains that refused to budge despite our regular cleaning schedule. The apartment smelled like we'd opened a cleaning supply store during a heat wave, a mix of bleach and lemon that burned my nostrils. I'd cracked the windows despite the morning chill because passing out from fumes wouldn't exactly help our situation.

“Leo,” Mari called from the kitchen. “We're running low on surface cleaner. Should I use vinegar for the rest of the counters?”

“Check under the sink in the bathroom,” I called back. “There should be another bottle.”

Our tiny two-bedroom apartment buzzed with unusual intensity for 6:30 AM on a Tuesday. Mari tackled the kitchen with the determination of someone preparing for a health inspector visit, which wasn't far from the truth. Diego, shockingly compliant for a sixteen-year-old asked to clean before school, wiped down baseboards in the living room. Even Sophie had been drafted, sorting through the pile of books that perpetually multiplied beside the couch, returning them to proper shelves or stacking them neatly.

The home inspection was scheduled for tomorrow morning. Forty-eight hours' notice, the bare minimum required by law. The timing wasn't coincidental. Nothing in our lives ever was.

I sat back on my heels, surveying the bathroom. Clean but obviously worn, like everything else in our lives. The tub had been white once, now permanently off-cream despite enough bleach to sanitize a hospital ward. The linoleum floor was spotless but curled slightly at the corners where moisture had seeped underneath. The sink faucet gleamed but still dripped every third second despite my countless attempts to fix it.

We could clean every surface until it sparkled, but there was no disguising the fundamental reality: four people living in a space designed for two, making do with what we could afford rather than what would impress a social services evaluator expecting middle-class standards from a decidedly not middle-class family.

Behind me, the shower curtain rustled as Mari entered, closing the door softly behind her.

“The kids are fine for a minute,” she said, perching on the closed toilet lid. “You want to tell me what's really going on? This is our third deep clean in five days.”

I rinsed the toothbrush in the sink, buying time before meeting her too-perceptive gaze.

“The custody review has been accelerated,” I admitted finally. “It was supposed to happen after your birthday. Now it's next week.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Why?”

“Townsend. School board president with political ambitions and very specific ideas about what makes a 'proper family.' He's taken an interest in our case.”

Understanding darkened her expression. “And Dad's been making noise around town.”

“You know about that?”

“Sophie mentioned seeing him outside her art class last week. I told her to come to me next time instead of bothering you with it.” Mari's protective instinct toward me still caught me off guard sometimes, the role reversal of her trying to shield me from additional worries when I was supposed to be the protector.

“You should have told me,” I said, though without real heat.

“You're carrying enough.” She studied my face for a moment. “Is that why your phone's been blowing up with texts from Ethan?”

Heat crept up my neck. Great. Just what I needed. Little sister commentary on my complicated not-relationship with my high school ex.

“He's been helping with some of the paperwork for the review. Professional references, documentation of educational stability for the kids.”

“Just professional assistance?” Her tone remained neutral, but her raised eyebrow spoke volumes. The kid could say more with one eyebrow than most people managed in a paragraph.

“That's all it can be right now,” I said firmly. “We've got enough complications without adding that particular variable to the mix.”

As if summoned by our conversation, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out to find another text from Ethan:

Ethan

Inspector will focus on safety issues first: smoke detectors, exposed wiring, locks. Then bedroom arrangements, food supply, homework space. Happy to help with preparations if needed. Also, found legal resource specializing in non-traditional custody. Free consultation.

Mari read the message over my shoulder, her expression thoughtful. “He seems very invested in helping.”

“He's being kind,” I said, the deflection automatic.

“That's more than kindness, Leo.” She stood, returning to the door. “Sometimes I think you're so used to doing everything alone that you can't recognize genuine support when it's offered.”

After she left, I stared at the phone, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. The practical information was useful, the legal resource potentially valuable. But accepting help with the actual apartment preparation felt like crossing another line, allowing Ethan further into the private world I'd kept carefully separated from our professional collaboration.

Leo

Thanks for the info and legal contact. We've got the cleaning covered. Appreciate the offer though.

I tucked the phone away and returned to scrubbing, trying to ignore the voice in my head that sounded suspiciously like Mari, wondering if pride was a luxury we could afford with so much at stake.

* * *

The envelope sat on the counter beside my lunch bag, the community college logo crisp against the white paper. I'd checked the mail between jobs, expecting bills and perhaps the formal notice of the custody review. Instead, I'd found this: the response to my application for evening classes.

I slid my finger under the flap, reality suspended in that moment before knowledge became irreversible. Like Schrodinger's cat, I was simultaneously accepted and rejected until I actually read the letter.

Dear Mr. Reyes, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into our Evening Studies Program beginning this fall semester. Additionally, you have been awarded the Returning Adult Learner Scholarship covering 40% of tuition costs...

The words blurred as contradictory emotions collided. Validation of academic potential I'd quietly doubted after ten years away from formal education. Excitement about a step toward the degree I'd deferred when custody of my siblings became priority. Financial assistance making the seemingly impossible slightly more accessible.

And immediate, crushing awareness that this opportunity arrived at the worst possible moment. Because of course it did. The universe had a twisted sense of humor when it came to my life.

How would a custody evaluator view my decision to add evening classes to an already full schedule? Would it be perceived as admirable self-improvement or evidence of divided attention away from family responsibilities? Would the time commitment be viewed as neglect of supervision duties or modeling educational commitment for my siblings?

The practical considerations multiplied like rabbits. Even with the scholarship, tuition would strain our budget.

The calculations spun through my head with the particular complexity familiar to anyone making decisions within a fragile system where one wrong move might collapse the entire structure.

My phone rang, interrupting the mental gymnastics. The high school's number flashed on the screen. Because of course it did. Perfect timing.

“Mr. Reyes? This is Principal Rodriguez from Riverton High. There's been an incident involving Diego. We need you to come in immediately.”

My heart sank. “Is he hurt?”

“No, but there was an altercation with another student. We need a guardian present for the disciplinary discussion.”

“I'll be there in twenty minutes,” I said, grabbing my keys.

As I got to the school, I immediately went to the principal’s office. Principal Rodriguez's office had the particular sterility common to administrative spaces, with motivational posters that had hung so long they'd faded unevenly where sunlight hit them. I sat in one of the uncomfortable visitor chairs, back straight, expression carefully calibrated between concern and authority. Ten years of practice had perfected my “responsible guardian who definitely has everything under control” face.

Diego slumped beside me, his lanky teenage frame practically folded in on itself, eyes fixed on the floor. The red mark on his cheekbone suggested the “altercation” had been more than verbal.

What I hadn't expected was Townsend sitting behind the principal's desk alongside Rodriguez, his presence at a routine disciplinary meeting as out of place as a tuxedo at a swimming pool. Subtle.

“Thank you for coming so promptly, Mr. Reyes,” Rodriguez began, her discomfort with Townsend's presence evident in her stiff posture. “As I mentioned on the phone, there was an incident between Diego and another student during passing period.”

“What happened?” I directed the question to Diego, who continued studying the industrial carpet like it contained the secrets of the universe.

“Mr. Sullivan claims Diego shoved him into a locker,” Townsend interjected before Diego could respond. “Quite forcefully, according to witnesses.”

I noted the immediate problems with this statement: Townsend speaking for the principal, the characterization of “claims” suggesting he hadn't witnessed the event himself, the emphasis on force that felt designed to escalate the situation.

“Diego?” I prompted again, keeping my voice level.

My brother finally looked up, anger and embarrassment warring in his expression. “Sullivan's been making comments all week. About our family. About... Dad showing up places drunk. Today he said CPS should've split us up years ago because you can't handle us.”

The protective rage that flared in my chest took significant effort to contain. I kept my expression neutral, turning back to Rodriguez.

“Was the other student disciplined for harassment?”

“We're addressing both sides of the incident,” she assured me, but her quick glance at Townsend suggested limited authority in his presence.

“I'd like to understand the normal procedure for a first-time physical altercation,” I said, pulling a small notebook from my pocket and beginning to take notes. The deliberate documentation immediately changed the dynamic, Townsend's expression tightening slightly.

“Typically, detention and conflict resolution counseling,” Rodriguez answered. “More serious consequences are reserved for repeated incidents or those resulting in injury.”

Townsend cleared his throat. “However, given the circumstances, we need to consider the home environment that may be contributing to this behavior. Supervision during after-school hours, for instance. Who monitors Diego between school dismissal and your return from work, Mr. Reyes?”

The transparent fishing expedition for custody review material was about as subtle as a brick through a window.

“Mari is typically home by the afternoon.” I answered carefully. “Diego's academic support program runs until 4:00 on Mondays and Wednesdays. On other days, he reports directly home where parental control software monitors computer usage and smart home systems alert me to entry and exit times.”

The slight exaggeration about technology we didn't actually have was calculated risk. Unless Townsend planned to hack our nonexistent smart home system, he couldn't disprove it.

“And your father's recent appearances around campus? How are you addressing that family disruption?”

Before I could formulate a response that wouldn't reveal too much about our complicated situation, the office door opened.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Ethan said, stepping into the room with a folder in hand. “Principal Rodriguez, I have the classroom context you requested about the incident.”

Rodriguez looked momentarily confused, then quickly recovered. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Webb.”

Ethan's presence was clearly unexpected, his involvement in a routine disciplinary matter unusual. Yet he moved with casual confidence, handing the folder to Rodriguez while nodding professionally to Townsend and me.

“I had both boys in class immediately before the altercation since I was a subbing for another teacher,” he explained. “There was a group discussion about family structures in literature that became somewhat heated. I noted Sullivan making several inappropriate comments that I addressed at the time, though apparently the conversation continued in the hallway.”

The strategic intervention provided both legitimate educational context and subtle support for Diego's version of events, creating balanced perspective where Townsend had clearly been building a one-sided narrative.

“Additionally,” Ethan continued, “Diego's academic performance has shown significant improvement this quarter.”

Townsend's expression soured like he'd bitten into a lemon as the neat narrative he'd been constructing unraveled under this new information. Rodriguez seized the opportunity to regain control of the meeting.

“Given the context and Diego's previously clean record, I believe detention and a written apology would be appropriate consequences, along with participation in our peer conflict resolution program.”

“I have no objection to those consequences,” I agreed quickly, wanting to conclude the meeting before Townsend could redirect it back to custody-related fishing.

Twenty minutes later, Diego and I walked toward the parking lot, the disciplinary matter resolved with reasonable outcome despite Townsend's obvious attempts to escalate it. Ethan had disappeared after providing his input, his timely intervention accomplishing its purpose without lingering to create appearance of coordination.

“Thanks for not freaking out,” Diego said quietly as we reached my truck.

“I'm not happy you got physical,” I replied, “but I understand why it happened.”

“Is it true what that Sullivan kid said? About Dad showing up places drunk?”

I weighed truth against protection, wondering how much Diego had pieced together already. “He's been having some difficult days. We're handling it.”

“By 'we' you mean you,” Diego observed with the particular insight that sometimes startled me from my teenage brother. “Like you handle everything.”

The simple acknowledgment hit harder than complaint would have, recognition of burden I tried to carry invisibly. Before I could respond, my phone chimed with a text from Mari:

Mari

Dad's outside the apartment. Seems drunk. Sophie and I are inside, doors locked. Should we call police?

My stomach dropped. “We need to go. Now.”

The scene that greeted us at the apartment building made my blood run cold. Miguel swayed near the building entrance, gesturing expansively while arguing with our downstairs neighbor Mrs. Guzman, who stood with arms crossed, blocking the doorway. Even from the parking lot, I could see he was significantly intoxicated despite claims of sobriety he'd apparently been making around town.

“Stay in the truck,” I told Diego, who immediately protested.

“But that's Dad, I want to...”

“Stay. In. The. Truck.” I rarely used that tone with my siblings, the one that brooked no argument. “Lock the doors. I'll handle this.”

As I approached, Miguel spotted me, his expression shifting from belligerence to a terrible attempt at warm familiarity. His acting skills had not improved with age.

“Leo! My boy! Tell this lady I'm here to see my kids. She won't let me up.” His words slurred together, body swaying slightly with each gesture.

Mrs. Guzman gave me a sympathetic look. “I told him he needed your permission to enter the building. He's been here twenty minutes already.”

“Thank you,” I said quietly to her, then turned to Miguel. “Dad, this isn't a good time. The kids have homework, and you're not in good shape for a visit right now.”

“Not in good shape?” His face darkened. “What's that supposed to mean? I'm their father! I have rights!”

“You have supervised visitation rights when sober,” I corrected gently, painfully aware of Diego watching from the truck, of neighbors potentially observing from windows, of the custody review hanging over every interaction. “We can arrange something for later in the week if you'd like.”

“No! Now!” He fumbled in his jacket pocket, producing a crumpled paper. “I got this from a lawyer. Says I get fam'ly reunification consideration. Says you can't keep my kids from me.”

I took the document, recognizing immediately it wasn't official court correspondence but something printed from a template website, filled with legal-sounding language that held no actual authority. The term “family reunification” jumped out, matching Townsend's policy phraseology too precisely for coincidence.

“This isn't a court order, Dad,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “It's not legally binding. We need to follow the actual custody agreement.”

His face contorted, volume rising. “You turned them against me! They're my children! You had no right to take them!”

“I didn't take them. You surrendered custody voluntarily after multiple CPS interventions.” The facts tumbled out before I could soften them, stress fracturing my careful diplomacy.

“Liar!” he shouted, lunging forward suddenly.

I stepped back, maintaining distance while blocking the doorway Mrs. Guzman had retreated through. Other neighbors had emerged onto their balconies, witnessing the confrontation unfolding on our front walkway. Perfect timing, creating documented family dysfunction for anyone connected to our custody review. Just another day in the Reyes family circus.

“Dad, please. You're making a scene that won't help anyone.” I tried again for de-escalation, even as my heart hammered against my ribs. “Let me call you a ride home, and we can talk tomorrow when you're feeling better.”

“I don't need to feel better! I NEED to see my kids!” He moved closer, alcohol fumes washing over me. “They want to see me! Sophie told me herself she misses me!”

The manipulation tactic was as transparent as it was effective, concern spiking about what interactions might have occurred without my knowledge. Had he approached Sophie alone? What had he said to her? What promises or threats had he made?

“Step back, please,” I said, my voice hardening as protective instinct overrode diplomacy.

Miguel's expression twisted further, decades of addiction and disappointment crystallizing into focused rage. “You always thought you were better than me. College boy. Too good for your old man's life. Now look at you, playing daddy to MY kids while scrubbing floors at night.”

The words found targets with unerring accuracy, striking vulnerabilities I thought I'd armored over years ago. Before I could respond, movement behind Miguel caught my attention.

Ethan walked up the sidewalk with casual confidence, as if his presence at our apartment was perfectly normal. He carried a stack of books, expression neutral but posture alert.

“Evening, Leo,” he called, his tone conversational despite the obvious tension. “Brought those reference materials we discussed for the project.” His gaze shifted to Miguel. “Sorry, am I interrupting something?”

Ethan stood between Miguel and the building entrance, creating both witness and barrier without overtly acknowledging the confrontation. The apparent coincidence of timing was obviously anything but, his arrival precisely when intervention was most needed too perfectly timed for accident.

Miguel spun unsteadily. “Who the hell are you?” His eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of foggy recognition crossing his face. “Wait... you seem familiar.”

“Ethan Webb. I teach at Riverton High.” He extended his hand with apparent obliviousness to Miguel's aggression. “English Literature.”

“Webb...” Miguel mumbled, the name stirring something in his alcohol-soaked memory, but not quite connecting all the dots. “You taught with... someone I knew?”

The social gesture momentarily confused Miguel, automatic response overriding anger as he automatically shook the offered hand. The disruption broke his focused rage toward me, creating space for de-escalation.

“Can I call you a ride somewhere?” Ethan offered, maintaining the fiction that this was normal interaction rather than intervention. “I'm happy to wait with you until it arrives.”

The redirection worked better than my direct confrontation had, Miguel's anger finding no purchase against Ethan's calm demeanor. Within ten minutes, Ethan had somehow maneuvered Miguel into accepting a cab, even paying the fare in advance with casual generosity that defused potential pride issues.

As the taxi pulled away, Ethan turned to me, the carefully constructed casualness fading into genuine concern.

“Are you okay? Is everyone inside alright?”

“They're fine. Diego's in my truck. Mari and Sophie are upstairs.” I ran a hand through my hair, adrenaline still coursing through my system. “How did you...?”

“I followed after the meeting. Had a feeling Townsend's interest might not be coincidental with your dad showing up at school.” He glanced toward my truck where Diego watched us. “I should go. You've got family to take care of.”

The simple acknowledgment of priorities without resentment or demand created complicated gratitude I wasn't equipped to process in that moment.

“Thank you,” I managed, the words wholly inadequate for intervention that likely prevented documentation of family dysfunction that could have devastated our custody review.

He nodded once, understanding in his eyes. “Anytime. I mean that, Leo.”

I watched him walk away, then turned toward my truck to collect Diego, stomach still tight with awareness of how close we'd come to disaster. The custody review, the home inspection, Miguel's escalating behavior, Diego's school troubles, community college decision, bookstore transition, all pressing simultaneously against resources already stretched beyond breaking.

And yet, for the first time in years, someone had stepped in beside me rather than adding to the burden or merely observing the struggle. The unfamiliar feeling of supported rather than isolated responsibility followed me up the stairs to our apartment, where three faces turned to me with varying degrees of concern and relief.

Later on that night, I sat on our narrow balcony at 2:30 AM, sleep impossible despite bone-deep exhaustion. Inside, my siblings finally slept after hours of processing the day's events, reassurances about safety, and strategic planning for tomorrow's home inspection.

The semicolon tattoo caught moonlight as I traced its outline absently, the symbol carrying heavier significance tonight than it had in years. There had been moments during the confrontation with Miguel when continuation had seemed less certain than I'd allowed anyone to see, when the accumulated weight of mounting pressures had nearly buckled my carefully maintained composure.

My phone screen illuminated with unexpected notification from Ethan

Ethan

Just checking if everyone's okay after earlier. Available if you need anything, no response necessary if not.

Leo

Rough night. Everyone's finally asleep. Home inspection tomorrow has me on edge after everything else. Feeling like the plates I've been spinning for ten years are all wobbling at once.

Ethan

I can imagine. Want company or prefer space? Could come by if helpful, or leave you in peace if not. Your call, no pressure either way.

Leo

Company might help. Balcony conversation if you're willing. Kids are asleep.

Ethan

On my way. 15 minutes.