I looked at my daughter, small in that plastic chair, and something inside me folded in half.
“She begged me not to tell you,” Owen said. “She knew you’d already been called in. She didn’t want you leaving work because of her.”
He looked over at Greta.
“I told her I wouldn’t say anything. I figured I could talk to someone here, keep those girls apart, and give her time to tell you herself. Karen asked me to stay while she called you.”
“She begged me not to tell you,”
“I could not agree to that,” Karen cut in, her voice firm. “I’m not going to hide a welfare concern about a ten-year-old from her mother. Especially when I’m being asked to make decisions based on information the mother has never seen.”
And then it hit me. Right there, in that overheated little office.
It’s okay. I don’t need to go. I’ll stay home.
I’d heard it as a gift.
And then it hit me.
A sweet kid easing her mother’s load.
But Greta hadn’t been helping me at all. She’d been trying to get out of going, and I had patted her head and told her absolutely not.
I should have asked why.
The thought stabbed me once, hard. Then I shoved it down, because she needed me more than I needed to flog myself.
“Show me the messages,” I said.
I should have asked why.
Karen slid over a printout. I read it standing up.
They weren’t threats, not exactly. They were worse in a quiet way. Mocking. Cold.
Nobody wants you in our cabin.
Can’t wait for camp, Greta. You can’t hide there.
Ten-year-olds with the manners of piranhas. My vision went red around the edges.
“Greta,” I said, as gently as I could manage, “none of this is your fault.”
Can’t wait for camp, Greta. You can’t hide there.
She finally looked up. She didn’t say anything.
That scared me more than the crying.
Then I turned on Owen, and I’m sorry, but I wasn’t gentle.
“Helping her was one thing,” I said. “Promising a ten-year-old you’d hide something like this from me is another. And then making arrangements on my behalf? Without me knowing?”
“She trusted me.” His voice cracked. “I didn’t want to betray that.”
Then I turned on Owen, and I’m sorry, but I wasn’t gentle.
“You’re not her parent.”
“I know that, but…”
“Pardon me,” Karen said, stepping between us. “Before this becomes the whole conversation, there’s something you should know. Another parent is on her way. I called the mother of the main girl involved, because this concerns two campers.”
I wiped my face. Okay, I thought. Fine. We’d protect Greta. We’d deal with Owen after.
I had no idea Owen had been working with half a story.
“Another parent is on her way.”
The other mother arrived ten minutes later, and she was already furious.
Sharp bob, car keys clutched like a weapon. She didn’t sit.
“Let me say this first,” she announced. “I’ve seen what my daughter sent. It was cruel. I’m not defending it, and she’s being dealt with.”
“Okay,” I said, thrown. “Thank you.”
“But.” Her eyes landed on me. “Have you seen what yours sent?”
She was already furious.
My stomach sank. “What are you talking about?”
She looked from me to Owen. “Neither of you know.”
“Know what?” Owen said.
She pulled out a phone, tapped it, and held it up.
A photo of a girl in a humiliating moment. I won’t describe it. It was the kind of picture a kid never wants anyone to see.
“Have you seen what yours sent?”
