Chapter 34 Chapter thirty four
The morning at the community centre was overwhelming in the best possible way.
I met with four families. Each had different needs, different crises, different stories. But they all shared the same exhaustion, the same frustration with systems designed to help but actually just created more barriers.
A single father trying to get educational support for his dyslexic son. The school had identified the issue but the assessment wait list was six months. His son was falling further behind every day.
A grandmother raising her two grandchildren after her daughter's death. The children qualified for grief counseling but the nearest provider with availability was forty-five minutes away and she did not have a car.
A mother whose teenager had dropped out of school to work and help with rent after they were displaced. She wanted him to go back but they could not afford to lose his income.
By lunch, I had a headache and a growing understanding of exactly how broken the system was.
Rosa found me in the small staff kitchen, staring at intake forms and trying to figure out resource allocation.
"How is your first real day going?" she asked.
"I have four families who need help I cannot provide with the resources we have. I have been trying to figure out how to stretch three thousand pounds to cover approximately fifteen thousand pounds worth of actual needs. The mathematics are not working."
"Welcome to nonprofit work. The mathematics never work. You just do what you can and live with the guilt of everyone you cannot help."
"That is depressing."
"That is reality." Rosa poured herself coffee. "But you know what helps? Focusing on who you can help instead of who you cannot. The single father with the dyslexic son? I have a contact at a private literacy center who does pro bono assessments for families in need. Call them. Get his son tested this week instead of waiting six months."
"Really?"
"Really. And the grandmother? There is a community transport service that does medical and counseling appointments. They can get the children to their sessions. You just have to know the service exists."
"How do you know all of this?"
"I have been doing this work for twenty years. You learn where the unofficial resources are. The people who actually help instead of just adding to waiting lists." She handed me a worn notebook. "These are my contacts. People who owe me favors. Organizations that do not advertise but will help if you ask the right way. Use them. Help the families. That is what we are here for."
I looked at the notebook. Decades of connections, carefully maintained, used to help people navigate impossible systems.
"Thank you."
"Do not thank me. Just do the work." She paused at the door. "Also, Dev called. His mother is being discharged this afternoon. Tests came back concerning but not immediately dangerous. They want her to see a cardiologist for follow-up. He sounded stressed."
"Did he say what the diagnosis was?"
"Something about her heart. I did not get details. But he mentioned not being able to afford the specialist appointments and I had to remind him that NHS covers cardiology. He is too stressed to think straight."
Of course he was. His mother was sick. He was working three jobs. Fighting a lawsuit. Starting a relationship. Teaching classes. Trying to finish his PhD. He was holding too much and something was going to break.
I texted him: Rosa said your mum is being discharged. How are you holding up?
His response came twenty minutes later: Holding. Barely. Can you still come tonight? I need to see you.
Me: Of course. Six o'clock. I will be there.
Dev: Thank you. For everything. For last night. For this morning. For not running when things got complicated.
Me: Things were already complicated. This just makes us complicated together. I am not running.
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At six o'clock, I stood outside Dev's building in Brixton, staring at the address he had sent. The building was old, probably council housing from the seventies. The entrance needed paint. The door lock looked like it barely worked.
This was where he lived. Where he slept on a sofa bed. Where his family of four shared whatever small space existed inside.
I buzzed the flat number he had given me. Marco answered.
"Come up. Third floor. Lift is broken so you have to take the stairs."
The stairwell smelled like cleaning products and something I could not identify. Graffiti covered the walls. Someone's music was playing too loud from one of the flats.
This was so far from Kensington Palace that it felt like a different world.
Dev met me on the third-floor landing, looking exhausted but managing a smile when he saw me.
"Hi."
"Hi yourself." I kissed him briefly. "How is your mum?"
"Resting. Complaining about being forced to rest. Which I am taking as a good sign." He took my hand. "Fair warning: the flat is small. And my siblings are home. And Mum is going to ask you intrusive questions about your intentions. Are you ready for this?"
"No. But I am here anyway."
He opened the door.
The flat was tiny. The entire space was probably smaller than my former bedroom at Kensington Palace. Kitchen, living room, and eating area all in one small room. Two doors that I assumed led to bedrooms. The sofa bed where Dev slept was currently folded up, covered with textbooks and papers.
But it was clean. And there were photographs on every wall. And it smelled like something delicious cooking.
Giulia was in the kitchen, stirring a pot. She looked up when we entered.
"The girlfriend returns. Mum has been asking about you all day."
"How is she?"