Olivia
When I pull into my drive after dropping Ethan off at day camp, I sit in the car for a moment.
I usually rush into the house and carry on with my life, but ever since that break between Caleb and me, being home alone feels too quiet.
I miss the interaction of having people in my life and I'd honestly rather work than sit around at home stewing.
But today is my day off, and I can't just avoid being home.
I climb out of the car, grabbing my purse and keys, and as I shut the door, a tan sedan pulls into the driveway and parks behind my car. I'm not expecting anyone today, and I don't recognize the woman, so I wait with my arms crossed over my chest for her to get out of her car.
A woman steps out carrying a clipboard and a leather portfolio. She's mid-forties with brown hair pulled back, wearing slacks and a blouse with a county badge clipped to her lanyard. Her smile's warm and professional as she walks up the driveway, but the logo on that badge makes my blood run cold.
"Mrs. Bennett?" she asks, extending her hand.
"That's me." I shake it and feel the sweat already building on my palm.
"My name is Mrs. Finch. I'm with Child Protective Services." She holds up her badge so I can read it clearly. "We received a complaint regarding the welfare of a minor at this address and I'm here to conduct a routine home assessment. Do you have a few minutes to speak with me?"
My throat constricts before I can answer, and I let go of her hand. I know exactly who made whatever complaint it was that was filed. And I feel sick to my stomach as I gesture at the front door—though I keep a smile locked in place.
"Of course. Please come in." Leading her to the house, my mind is reeling.
Between Caleb and Derek, I'm not sure who's worse.
Which one of them could stoop so low as to call CPS and report me for anything?
I've done nothing wrong. But I let her inside and guide her to the kitchen, dropping my purse and keys on the counter.
"Can I get you anything? Water, coffee?"
"Water would be lovely, thank you." She sets her portfolio on the kitchen table and pulls out a pen along with a printed form covered in boxes, checkmarks, and enough blank lines to write a novel.
I fill a glass at the sink and hand it to her, then sit down across from her with my hands folded under the table so she can't see them shaking.
"I want you to know this is completely standard procedure," Mrs. Finch says, clicking her pen.
"When we receive a complaint, we're required to follow up with an in-home visit.
It doesn't mean anything has been determined or that you've done anything wrong.
I'm just here to look around, ask a few questions, and file my report. "
"I understand." I keep my voice bright and easy.
"Ask me anything you need to." I want to ask her a few questions—like who the hell thinks I'm a bad enough mom to warrant a visit like this?
Like, why can someone just walk into my house to investigate my property without a court order or a warrant?
And what if I want to resist this? Will they lock me up?
"How old is your son?"
"Uh, Ethan just turned eight in March." I'm so nervous, I keep wringing my hands. This is insane. Why would Derek do this to me?
"And he lives here full time with you?" She flicks a glance up at me, and I smile and nod.
"Yes. His father has visitation every other weekend and one evening during the week per our custody agreement."
Mrs. Finch writes that down and nods. "The complaint mentions concerns about medication storage in the home. Do you keep any prescription medications here?"
"I have a prescription for Sertraline, which is an antidepressant, and a prescription for Zolpidem, which helps me sleep.
Both are prescribed by my doctor and stored in the kitchen cabinet above the sink, well out of Ethan's reach.
" It's obvious that at eight he can push a chair up there, but Ethan has never tried to touch my medications and I've always taught him that they aren't to be messed with.
"May I see where they're stored?"
"Absolutely," I say with a shaky voice, standing to open the cabinet and show her both bottles on the top shelf.
She glances up at them and writes something on her form, then nods again.
She's doing a lot of nodding. She reminds me of a bobble head for the dashboard of a car, though it's a good thing, right?
She's not making negative faces or trying to snoop around other rooms.
"And these are kept up high at all times? Your son doesn't have access to them?"
"He can't reach that shelf without a step stool, and even then he'd have to move three other things to get to them. Besides, he knows the difference between medication and candy. I've taught him that."
"That's fine. Thank you." She closes the cabinet door for me, which I appreciate, and we sit back down. "The complaint also raised concerns about supervision. Can you walk me through a typical day when Ethan is home?"
I sigh, wondering what this is about. I'm always watching him, and he's always at home. I never leave him alone or unsupervised, unless they count times where he plays in the fenced-in back yard.
"During the school year, he's in class until three and I pick him up on my way home from work.
In the summer, he goes to day camp. When he's home with me on weekends, he plays in the yard, rides his bike, kicks his soccer ball around.
I can see the backyard from the kitchen window and I check on him constantly. "
"Does he ever play outside unsupervised?
" Now her eyes narrow on me and I'm getting the feeling that this is less to do with my parenting and more to do with Derek's stupid fake attack on Caleb.
He hired Caleb to snoop around and then accused him of being a stranger.
For what reason? In case Caleb failed or hit on me?
"Can I ask who made this complaint?" I say, feeling like I'm being cornered.
"Just answer the question, Mrs. Bennett. The complaint isn't important. I just want to make sure I do my job."
Huffing I say, "He plays in the yard where I can see him from the kitchen window. He rides his bike to the stop sign at the end of the street and back, always with his helmet on. He's eight, Mrs. Finch. I give him age-appropriate independence, but I always know where he is."
"That sounds perfectly reasonable." She makes another note and flips to the next page. "Do you mind if I take a quick look at the rest of the house? His bedroom, the bathrooms, the general living areas?"
"Not at all. Let me show you around." I have a huge problem with this because it's a major invasion of my privacy, but I walk her through every room and she takes her time in each one without lingering too long.
Ethan's bedroom with his made bed, his bookshelf, and his soccer trophies lined up on the dresser.
The bathroom where his toothbrush sits in the holder and his towel hangs on the rack.
The living room where the gaming console sits neatly under the television.
She writes a few things down at each stop and moves on.
We end up back in the kitchen where she closes her portfolio and caps her pen.
"Mrs. Bennett, your home is clean and well-maintained, and your son's living space looks comfortable and appropriate.
I don't have any concerns based on what I've seen today.
" She stands and tucks the portfolio under her arm.
"I'll file my report and you'll receive a copy in the mail within two weeks.
My card is in the packet I'll leave with you if you have questions. "
I'm almost in tears at her assessment because if she'd have thrown up red flags, it would mean Ethan never came back here. Derek would get assigned temporary custody until the judge could rule, and it would not go in my favor.
"Can I ask you something?" I say timidly.
"I can't tell you who called in the complaint," she says, hooking her purse strap over her shoulder.
"Why would someone do this to me?" I know this question isn’t part of her responsibility and that really I need a friend to offer the comfort I need. But I don't have friends, and she's right in front of me.
Mrs. Finch sighs and touches my hand. "Honey, people are mean and cruel sometimes, and whatever the motive, you'll just have to live with that.
But I can assure you that you are a good mom.
You've done the right things, and you don't have anything to worry about from us.
" She squeezes my hand and turns toward the door.
"Thank you for being so thorough." I walk her to the front door and shake her hand. She slips out as quickly as she came, but I'm rattled. What if I hadn't done the dishes this morning or Ethan had left his room messy? Would those things have counted against me?
I think I'm going to be sick.
Mrs. Finch backs out of my driveway, and I stand on the porch watching her go until the vehicle drives away.
Then I look across the yard and see Caleb crouched by the fence on his side with a can of wood sealant and a brush, painting the painted posts he installed weeks ago.
The clear varnish dampens his shirt. He looks so focused and steady, like what happened between us isn't even bothering him the way it has me. I want to scream.
When I step off the porch, moving his direction, he looks up, setting the brush aside to stand and wipe his hands on his jeans. The clearcoat smears across the denim, making me cringe, but I march over there ready to give him a piece of my mind.
Unfortunately, on the march over, I lose some of my steam.
He looks cautious, maybe almost remorseful, and I'm nothing if not a softy for those big brown eyes.
It slows my pace and cools my temper, and when he runs a hand across his pants again, I let my shoulders relax.
He's probably nervous because we haven't spoken in weeks.
"CPS just came to my house," I tell him softly.
He doesn't need to know, but maybe it'll show him just how bad this crap with Derek is getting.
I know the man inside that thick skull at least cares about Ethan.
"Apparently, someone reported my medications to them and said I'm not supervising him well. "
I'm not sure how much of this "complaint" came from Caleb's snooping around, but I don't think, based on the look on his face, that he is the one who called them.
He closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens, he looks sad. "It was Derek," he grumbles, but I'm not surprised by that. But when he speaks again, I almost feel violated again. "And he complained to your boss too…"
I don't even know what to think or whether to trust him. "How do you know about calls to Helen?"
"I went to the boutique and talked to her." He says it sheepishly and hangs his head. Then looks up at me with definite remorse this time. "I know he's just trying to ruin your life and—"
"You went to my job and talked to my boss about me?" I say hastily, and the frustration I'm feeling starts to bleed through my positive mentality. He wasn't just watching me. He went behind my back.
"I was trying to help."
"How is spying on me helping?" My positive attitude snaps and I curl my hands into fists.
"I know what I did and I know I can't undo it." Caleb picks at some of the sealant dried to his hands. "But Derek's the one making these complaints. I'm not wanting you to feel sorry for me or even forgive me, but I just want you to know that I'm not the one making the complaints."
He steps back and his shoulders slump. I hate it, but I picture the kid inside him, wanting to do a good job, and having failed, receiving a lecture.
It makes me think of how I might speak to Ethan if he did something wrong, and I calm down immediately.
With my voice in a lower tone, I say, "But you gave him what he needed to continue his plan to sue for custody. "
"Yes. And I'll carry that for the rest of my life." I can hear the apology in his tone, even though he doesn't say he's sorry, and I know how bad he feels. It doesn't change what he did, but at least he realizes now what he's done.
"Can you put the paint supplies away when you're done?" I ask him, letting my head fall. "CPS is watching me now, Caleb. I can't have open paint cans sitting along my fence line where Ethan can reach them."
I make it to the kitchen before my knees buckle. I sink into the chair at the table Caleb built, burying my face in my hands, and break down crying. The sobs rack my body and my heart physically hurts.
I want him to come right over here and hold me and tell me it'll be okay.
I want that man who seemed so understanding and supportive to go undo the damage he did and fight for me to make it right now.
I want Caleb Ward to march down to Derek's office and punch him in the face and make that miserable, evil man leave me alone.
Because I want Caleb Ward.
I miss him so much it aches in my chest, and I hate that I miss him, and missing him in spite of the things he's done is the worst part of all of this.
I wipe my face with a dish towel, blow my nose, and sit at the table until my breathing steadies.
Then I wash my face at the sink, put on a pot of coffee, and pull my laptop out to type up an email to my own lawyer about all of this.
Ethan gets home from camp in six hours, and when he walks through that door, I need to be smiling.