“Dad, I’m sorry, I wasn’t good.” I came home to find my 12-year-old son sᴛʀᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ into his wheelchair. The nightmare I discovered later was a thousand times worse.

He dialed.

“Cal. What a surprise,” Fiona said. Her voice always carried the cadence of champagne. Effervescent. Superficial.

“I need to know something. Why did you recommend Talia Price to me?”

Fiona paused. “Because she came highly recommended. I thought you knew that. You checked her references. Is something wrong?”

Calvin pushed forward. “She restrained Reese. With rope. She harmed him. Not once. For months.”

A long silence.

“Calvin. You cannot take Reese’s word for everything. He makes things up. He dramatizes. You know how disabled children can be. They crave attention.”

Calvin’s blood boiled. “Disabled children? He is my son. He is a person. He is not a burden. And he is telling the truth.”

Fiona’s tone shifted. “You are overreacting. You have always been overprotective. You are too emotional about him. Maybe he needs firmer boundaries.”

“I am coming to speak to you in person,” Calvin said. “Do not leave your house.”