Mandated Reporters

By Kira Rodriguez

Lesson two:

During professional duties, reasonable suspicion of child abuse or maltreatment must be reported.

“A lady in a suit came yesterday,” Silas Lowe said as he put his coat on the hook.

Mom dropped him off today. Her eyes were red and glossy, her breath rank. It stung her nose. She hoped the baby was with Dad or Grandma, glad that Silas seemed to be okay. His mother stared at her, read her and knew she was the one who called Child Protective Services on her. She never liked Ms. Mandy because she did her job, she asked questions, she didn’t believe the excuses that were given. Silas ignored the stare, hugging Ms. Mandy before running into the room and moving his little face on the magnetic calendar to April 28th, 2026. He slid on the floor next to the cars, picking up the red race car he claimed was his when he was at school. 

“You had no right,” his mother said before storming out.

Ms. Mandy had every right. It was her job. She couldn’t let Silas be another kid she failed.

Mom wasn’t home when the lady in the suit came over, Silas told her. It was just Dad who was playing with him and his baby sister, making grilled cheese and tomato soup, reading ‘Chicka Chicka Boom Boom’ while he lay in bed with his stuffed red dinosaur. Ms. Mandy asked him where Mommy was, but he and Daddy didn’t know. Dad slept over that night because she had just left, coming back at three in the morning. Dad had small bruises on his cheek when he picked up Silas that afternoon, carrying the baby in a car seat. He put her down on the floor for Silas to say “Hello”.

“Thank you,” his dad said, hugging Ms. Mandy. “I tried.” 

Silas joined in, confused about the hug fest, but he didn’t care. There was a smile on his dad’s face where there wasn’t one before.

Lesson three:

Never underestimate the power of separation anxiety.

Nevaeh sat there, waiting, watching, wailing. Her drool and tears soaked the pink sundress, roses embroidered on the sleeves and along the bottom. Her pink bow struggled to hold back her thick, curly black hair that was now disheveled from when Mom tried to pull Nevaeh off her chest.  Mommy loves you. Mommy needs to go to work. Mommy will be back soon. A nine-month-old doesn’t listen to reasoning. 

Liv has already changed her twice. She sat with her on the floor, trying to distract little Nevaeh. She didn’t care. She just wanted Mommy. Her tears soaked nearly every inch of her, her eyes red as she struggled to breathe through each howl. Liv’s eyes were just as red. She begged her to stop, told her that everything would be alright, that Mommy would be back soon. She wouldn’t be, it was only eight-thirty in the morning. Ms. Mandy laid her hand on Liv’s shoulder, asking her to take Nevaeh into the other room where the lights were off and the lullabies hummed. She knew Liv wouldn’t leave her, not again. 

It had been two years since Lucas, two years since Liv changed. Ms. Mandy was proud of her. She was doing better than Ms. Mandy had, but the outcome was different. Liv took her job seriously; it wasn’t about playing all day as she once thought. She knew Liv stayed to make things right, she stayed for the kids, she stayed because she needed to.

Ms. Mandy went to check on Liv as the howling stopped, standing in the doorway to make sure she could see the three infants crawling around. Liv rocked back and forth in the rocking chair. The blanket Nevaeh’s mom gave them, the one that smelled like her, rested over her shoulder where Nevaeh’s small head lay. 

“Why don’t you put her down? More kids should be coming in soon.”

“I will when they get here. Let me know if you need me.”

Ms. Mandy nodded and smiled.