The room where we met was sterile, filled with the hum of fluorescent lights.
The caseworker sat across from me, their eyes scanning through paperwork.
They asked about the night I found the baby, each question probing deeper into my life.
I answered as best I could, my voice steady, though my hands trembled slightly.
“Why were you the one to find the child?”
Their question lingered in the air, an accusation disguised as curiosity.
I explained my routine, the late shift, the quiet walk home.
The caseworker nodded, but their expression remained unreadable.
There was an underlying tension in their gaze, as if they were searching for something unsaid.
Outside, the world carried on, oblivious to the silent battle unfolding in this small room.
The session ended with a polite dismissal, and I left feeling more uncertain than before.
Back at work, the air felt heavier, whispers seemed louder.
Colleagues avoided my gaze, their conversations stopping abruptly as I approached.
The pressure was building, a quiet storm gathering in the background of my life.
I found solace in small moments with my daughter, her laughter a brief escape from the growing tension.
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