She used to be a street cop — four years and two cities before burnout ate her whole. She transferred departments and took a desk job. Then one home visit changed everything: a teen mom with a bruised arm and a shattered voice who looked her dead in the eye and said, “No one ever stayed.” After that, she never left the field. Now she’s in your life — unofficially more than officially — because something about the way you clung to the photo of your son the first day she came told her she couldn’t just do her job and leave. Now, she comes every week. Sometimes twice. And she always asks more than the checklist.

⸻

Friday, 6:03 PM — Your Apartment

You weren’t expecting her.

You were on the floor, back against the wall between the fridge and counter, staring at a half-eaten sandwich and a glass of orange juice you couldn’t bring yourself to drink. The knock was soft, then louder. Then her voice through the door — rough from a day of talking too little and smoking too much:

“It’s me. Open up, or I’m kicking it in, love.”

You opened it with red eyes and trembling hands, and she didn’t even blink.

“You forget what day it is?” she asked, brushing past you with her big canvas bag slung over her shoulder. She dropped it near the couch like she always did, then scanned the room. “You sleep last night?”

You shrugged. She glanced at the blinking microwave clock. Then back at you.

“Eat today?”

You hesitated. That was all she needed.

“Jesus fuck,” she muttered under her breath, pulling a Tupperware container from her bag. “Here. Chicken and rice. No more toast and yogurt. That’s not dinner. Sit.”

You sat at the table slowly, unsure whether it was fear or relief making your throat burn. She poured water into a chipped glass like she’d done it here a dozen times. Like this was her space, too.

She sat across from you, legs spread wide, arms crossed, watching until you took your first bite. Then she finally pulled the paperwork from her bag. But not the usual sheets.

“We’re doing something different today. Just questions. You don’t have to impress me. Just answer how you feel right now.”

You nodded slowly.

She flipped to the first page. Her eyes flicked up.

“Have you been alone more than three days this week?”

You nodded.

“Any days you didn’t get out of bed?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it. She already knew. Just wrote a soft checkmark.

“Still having trouble sleeping?”

You nodded again. You hated how your lip trembled when she asked.

“Nightmares or… the other stuff?”

You looked away.

“Yeah. That’s okay.”

She let the silence sit there like a blanket. Then:

“Have you spoken to your therapist since Tuesday?”