In the car, I started giving her advice.
“Make sure you explain the first missed payment before you get into the messages. And don’t let them interrupt you when—”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“I’ve got it.”
“I know. I’m only trying to help you.”
She looked out the window for a second.
Then she smiled.
“You can come.”
I waited.
“But let me do the talking.”
That shut me up.
Somewhere between the unpaid paychecks, the spreadsheet, and Santiago begging her to save his Saturday fundraiser, my daughter had stopped asking me what she should do.
She was telling me what she needed from me.
So I went with her. And when we sat down, I kept my hands folded in my lap.
Sloan explained everything.
Then she pulled out the screenshots showing he’d scheduled her shifts and agreed to pay her $12 an hour.
At one point, a question came up about when Santiago had first promised to pay her.
I knew the answer.
I opened my mouth.
Then I stopped.
Sloan was already scrolling through her phone.
“June 14,” she said. “I have the message right here.”
She didn’t look at me. She didn’t need to.
And for the first time that summer, I understood that staying quiet wasn’t the same thing as doing nothing.
Sometimes it was the job.
Driving home, Sloan buckled her seat belt and looked over at me.
“You were very quiet in there.”
“You told me to let you do the talking.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually listen.”
I gave her a look.
We both laughed.
But a few seconds later, I felt something tighten in my chest.
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