“WHY ARE WE REWARDING BAD CHOICES?”
“STOP ENABLING.”
“WORK HARDER.”
“WHO’S PAYING FOR THIS?”
My jaw tightened.
Page after page was a tug-of-war.
Some notes were soft.
“I was short this week. I took diapers. I’m sorry. I’ll replace them.”
“Thank you. My baby finally ate.”
“I left three cans because someone left two for me last month.”
“You saved us.”
Other notes were poison.
“THIS ISN’T A CHARITY.”
“TAKERS RUIN EVERYTHING.”
“IF YOU CAN’T AFFORD KIDS—DON’T HAVE THEM.”
“STOP BREEDING.”
There it was again.
Same sentence.
Different pen.
Different day.
Same cruelty.
I stared at those words until my vision blurred, and not from tears.
From heat.
From memory.
From the part of me that learned young that words can be a weapon even when nobody bleeds right away.
I closed the notebook.
And that’s when I saw it—tucked under the back cover, folded twice, like someone wanted it hidden but not lost.
A small piece of paper.
Neat handwriting.
Hospital handwriting. The kind that’s learned in a place where time matters.
It said: