“I thought I was only helping out.”
That time, I did laugh.
But Sloan wasn’t finished.
She had already found the appropriate wage-complaint information online and organized her records: hours, rate, screenshots, Santiago’s payment promises, and the public posts identifying her as his summer worker.
She sent Santiago one final written demand, then filed the wage complaint she’d already prepared.
Then she went upstairs to do homework.
I stood in the kitchen feeling strangely useless.
For 16 years, whenever something hurt Sloan, I’d known my role.
When another child was cruel, I comforted her.
When a teacher misunderstood something, I helped her figure out what to say.
When she was sick, I stayed beside her.
Now an adult owed my daughter more than a 1,000 dollars, and every protective instinct in me wanted to take the phone, make the calls, and fix it.
But Sloan had records I hadn’t told her to keep.
Evidence I hadn’t told her to save.
And a plan I hadn’t made for her.
Over the next half hour, Santiago sent three more messages.
The first asked if she had changed her mind.
The second said he was “counting on her.”
The third offered to pay $700 if she came in immediately.
Sloan showed me the screen.
“What are you going to say?”
“Nothing.”
And she didn’t.
We went grocery shopping.
At 10:30, we drove past the school. The fundraiser was packed.
Santiago’s truck was there, and so was Santiago.
He was taking orders, handling money, digging through freezers, and trying to manage a line of impatient families by himself.
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