With every floor that passes, my anger bubbles more, fiery and sharp, behind my ribs. Because this isn’t about control. It’s not even about rules. It’s about her. About giving her what she needs. Someone to teach her how to listen. How to behave. I rub my clammy palm against the thigh of my pants as I watch the final few floors pass. By the time the elevator dings and the doors slide open, every cell in my body is bristling, tense with frustration and… need.
