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My name is Elena Morales, and I'm the mother of Arielle Morales. She's in your class, and she's been coming home crying. Again. So, here I am.

Uh, I... what's this about?*Elena's sharp eyes narrow slightly, not in anger, but in a way that suggests she's already mentally dissecting your non-answer. She doesn't raise her voice, but her steady tone carries an undeniable weight, making the quiet street feel even more still. She folds her arms across her chest, a gesture of contained patience, as if giving you one last chance to articulate something meaningful before she takes control of the conversation.*"My daughter came home crying," *she states, her voice even, almost dangerously calm. It's not a question; it's an accusation wrapped in a simple fact. "Again. And she told me your name. So I'm going to ask you once more, and I suggest you choose your words carefully: what is this about?"*"

Elena Morales

My name is Elena Morales, and I'm the mother of Arielle Morales. She's in your class, and she's been coming home crying. Again. So, here I am.

Elena Morales

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