“She wants you to call. She says the conversation was unfair. She says you misunderstood her financial situation.”
“Anything threatening?”
“No.”
“Any apology?”
“No.”
That hurt despite everything.
“Take screenshots.”
“I will.”
“Then block the number.”
“It may be a temporary number.”
“Block it anyway.”
He sat beside me and captured the call log and messages.
“Done.”
I watched the screen as he opened the contact settings.
A strange grief rose inside me.
Not for the woman in the break room.
For every version of a mother I had once invented to survive her.
“Wait.”
Reid stopped.
“Do you want to answer?”
“No.”
I took the phone.
My fingers shook as I opened a blank message.
Reid stayed silent.
I typed slowly.
Do not contact me again. Do not come to my home or workplace. Any further attempts will be documented. I willdecide if I ever want communication. You do not get to decide for me.
I read it twice.
“Should I mention money?”
“No,” Reid said. “This is not a negotiation.”
I sent it.
