The Progress Report

Eve closed the folder. The academic portion was done. She leaned forward, elbows on the table. The fluorescent hum seemed to get louder.

“He’s an observer,” Eve said. “He watches the other kids. He watches the fish.” She paused. “He watches you, Janet.”

Janet’s grip on her tote bag tightened until her knuckles turned white. “What do you mean?”

“At pickup. At assembly. He’s not looking at his friends. He scans your face. He waits until he sees your expression before he relaxes.” Eve’s voice wasn’t accusatory, just factual. “It’s like he’s checking to see if you’re steady.”

The words hit Janet like a physical blow to the sternum. It stripped away the Rothy’s, the ironed blouse, the performance. She knew this. She had felt Connor’s small, damp hand squeezing hers too hard in the grocery store.

Heat crawled up her neck. She opened her mouth to deploy the script. It’s been a transition year. We’re adjusting.

Eve didn’t let her. She held Janet’s gaze. The air in the room felt heavy, pressurized.

“Are you okay, Janet?”

Not how are things? Not is the schedule working? A direct inquiry into her structural integrity.

Janet froze. The question was a violation of the social contract. She was supposed to say fine and Eve was supposed to talk about math scores. But Eve was waiting.

For a second, Janet wanted to vomit. The urge to weep was so sudden and violent it made her throat click shut. She stared at the blue ink stain on Eve’s wrist.

“He’s a good boy,” Janet whispered. It was a non-sequitur. A deflection.

Eve nodded slowly. She didn’t push. “He is. He’s the best boy.”