Who Do I Talk To? by Neta Jackson

“But I did, didn’t I?” The anger that I had so carefully repressed threatened to surge right out of my gut in a seismic eruption.
    Don’t, Gabby, don’t!
    I waited until I could speak without screaming and took a deep breath to steady my voice. “My lawyer is filing an unlawful eviction case and a custody case. There’s no question a judge will rule in my favor.”
    â€œYour lawyer?” His shrug felt like a slap in the face. “Tell me something, Gabby. Exactly how do you plan to pay for a lawyer?”
    I stared at him.
    â€œAh.” He smiled. “Legal Aid. Of course.”
    A glass paperweight sat on his desk within arm’s reach of me. Oh, how I wanted to snatch it up and throw it at that smug smile. Or right through his picture-perfect window overlooking the city skyline. But even as I imagined glass shattering everywhere, I knew in my gut Philip was goading me. “Go ahead, Gabby. Do something crazy.”
    A hysterical giggle nearly escaped the emotions churning under my skin. Right. With my luck, the falling glass would probably kill somebody on the street below and I’d get sued. Or dragged off to jail.
    I’d lost my upper hand. “Philip . . . why?” I couldn’t help it. My voice shook. “Why tear our family apart this way?”
    His eyebrows shot up and he threw his hands open. “Me! Me? I seem to recall you were the one who took this do-gooder job that started screwing everything up! The one who just showed up with her mother and her mutt, turning our household upside down. Without considering me at all in your decisions, I might add. Oh yes, the one whose idea of taking care of our sons was to drag them to a homeless shelter and expose them to all sorts of riffraff all day.”
    â€œBut . . . but, Philip. I was trying! I came home Monday to tell you I’d quit the job and that I’d even found a place for my mom.”
    His eyes narrowed. “What place?”
    â€œWhy, Manna House. The shelter. They said they’d take her in, and she seemed happy with . . . What?”
    My husband had started to laugh. He shook his head, shoulders shaking. “Listen to yourself, Gabby. The shelter! The shelter ! You’re like a broken record. If you weren’t so pathetic, this would be funny—”
    His phone rang. Still chuckling, he picked up. “Oh, sure. Put him through.” He glanced at me, then swiveled his chair so that his back was to me. “Oh, hey, Bill! What’s up? . . . Saturday? What time? . . . Yeah, yeah, sure, I could make that . . . No, no, that’s good . . . Gotta dig out my clubs, though. We just moved, you know. I might be a little rusty . . .”
    I stared at the back of his head. Hot tears stung my eyes. I was so close to a meltdown, I was afraid to move.
    Afraid not to move. I had to get out of there or I’d go crazy!
    Maybe I was already crazy.
    Oh God, Oh God, Oh God . . . have You forgotten all about me?
    I stood up on wobbly legs and somehow made it to the door as Philip chatted on the phone. But as I put my hand on the doorknob, a Voice seemed to be whispering in my ear: Gabby. Gabby. Can a mother forget the baby at her breast? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! I recognized the verses Edesa had written in her note. And there was more. Something about God engraving my name on the palms of His hands . . . and sending sons hastening back.
    I couldn’t remember it all word for word, but the turmoil surging through my veins suddenly lost steam, replaced with . . . what? A sudden stillness in my spirit. No hysterics. No hot anger. Just the return of a quiet confidence.
    I lifted my head and waited at the door until Philip ended the call. He seemed surprised that I was till there. “My things,” I said. My voice was steady. “I want the rest of my things. Like my sewing machine. I need it for a class at the shelter. I need to know when I can come