CPS knocked on my door on a quiet Tuesday, and my stomach fell straight through the floor. I’d let my eight-year-old, Noah, play in the courtyard park below our balcony like always—where I could see him, where he knew to look up and wave. Still, the worker stepped in with a clipboard and a careful smile and asked to speak to him alone.
I paced the kitchen until she came back, eyes shining like she’d been holding her breath. “He’s okay,” she said softly. “But he mentioned a man in a red cap—sunflower seeds for the birds, same bench every day. Do you know him?”
I didn’t. Noah isn’t allowed to talk to strangers. I watch him every time he’s outside. The worker nodded like she’d expected that. “The man who kept calling us about neglect?” she added. “It’s the same man. He wasn’t trying to hurt him. He thought no one was watching.”
Noah looked up from his dinosaur book and asked if we could make lemon cookies later. The caseworker smiled and said she’d be closing the file, but I might want to talk to my son about the man. “I think he matters,” she said.
Over apple slices, I asked his name. Noah shrugged. “He never said. He tells me stories and lets me draw in his notebook.” He chewed, thinking, then added, “He said when you lose someone you love, you sometimes look for them in other people. He had a boy once. His name was Noah too.” He said it so simply my chest hurt.
Be First to Comment