I’ve slept on every kind of concrete in this city. Church steps. Library porches.
Even the loading dock behind the old grocery store on Truman. But none of that prepared me for the night I found a yellow slip on the windshield of our van—an official notice from Child Protective Services. The worst part?
My three kids were finally sleeping when I found it. I kept staring at the words like they were in another language: “Anonymous report of neglect and unsafe living conditions.” I could’ve guessed a dozen names—people who’ve side-eyed us at the park or crossed the street when they saw the kids with dirt on their faces. But I never would’ve guessed it was Ramon.
He’s the guy who used to bring us hot burritos from his taco truck on Friday nights. The guy who let my youngest nap under his table during the heatwave. I even gave him our last bottle of baby Tylenol when his nephew got sick.
I found out it was him from a lady at the shelter—she overheard him bragging about how he “did the right thing” and “got the kids outta that mess.”
But the thing is… CPS never took them. They showed up, did their check, and saw that we had food, blankets, and clean bottles—even if it wasn’t a real home. They left us with pamphlets and told me to keep trying for housing.
So why did Ramon do it? Was it guilt? Or something worse?
I haven’t confronted him yet. But I saw his truck last night near the 24-hour laundromat. I walked toward it.
At first, I didn’t even know what I was going to say. My shoes crunched over broken glass in the parking lot, and the closer I got, the more my throat dried out. The truck smelled like carnitas and cilantro, and the back window was open, steaming the air.
Ramon was inside, wiping down the prep counter. He didn’t see me until I was practically at the window. When our eyes met, his face changed—somewhere between guilt and surprise.
“Hey, Jess,” he said like nothing happened. “You want something to eat? I’ve got leftover tamales.”
I almost said yes.
My stomach growled like it wanted to answer for me. But I stood my ground. “Why’d you do it?” I asked.
“Why’d you report us?”
He froze. His hand was still holding the rag mid-wipe. “You heard about that?”
I nodded.
“Someone at the shelter told me. You bragged about it.”
He sighed and leaned his elbows on the window ledge. “Look… it wasn’t personal.
I just thought maybe it would help. You know? Maybe get you and the kids some real help.”
I clenched my fists.
“We weren’t starving. We weren’t unsafe. You’ve seen how I take care of them.”
“I know,” he said softly.
“I’ve seen it. But not everyone else has. One day some cop or busybody was gonna do it worse.
I thought maybe if I was the one… it’d go smoother. Safer.”
I didn’t know what to say. My chest was tight.
I kept thinking about the fear I felt when I found that slip. The way my oldest, Dani, had asked if someone was taking her siblings away. “You should’ve told me,” I whispered.
“You should’ve talked to me first.”
He looked down. “I thought about it. But I didn’t think you’d forgive me either way.”
I walked away without another word.
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