The toddler was on the floor behind her, red-faced and gasping for air between screams.
“I’m sorry,” she choked out, her voice cracking. She didn’t even look at me; she was looking at the floor. “I know. I know it’s loud. I’m trying.”
I saw past her into the living room. It was a war zone.
“He won’t stop,” she sobbed, gesturing to the boy. “He has a double ear infection. The antibiotics aren’t working yet. My husband got deployed to the Middle East two weeks ago. My washer flooded the hallway this morning, and the repair guy wants $250 just to look at it.”
She wiped her nose with her sleeve. “I don’t have $250. I don’t have anyone. I’m just… I’m so tired.”
She leaned against the doorframe like it was the only thing holding her upright.
I looked at her. Really looked at her.
She wasn’t a “bad mother.” She was a kid herself. Probably 24. Terrified. Alone. Drowning in a world that doesn’t help anyone anymore.
I thought about my own daughter, living three states away. If she was this broken, would her neighbor scream at her? Or help her?
“I didn’t come to complain about the noise,” I lied. The lie tasted like ash, but I swallowed it.
