A Reasonable Wife

He heard her take a few ragged breaths. “The director just pulled the three of us aside,” Jane began, her voice tight. “He told us the ministry rejected the volunteer list based on the mandatory requirements. We were all shocked.”

“What?” Peter asked, confusion cutting through his concern. “What requirements? I thought it was just formalities.”

“So did we,” Jane cried, the hurt sharp in her tone. “He said the role explicitly requires a master’s degree in social work and the candidate must be under the age of forty.” She let out a wet, bitter laugh. “Sarah is forty-one. And Chloe has a bachelor’s in sociology, which apparently doesn’t count. He’d misinterpreted the ‘or equivalent experience’ clause, assumed we’d all qualify, and now the ministry’s auditors have enforced the strict criteria. He looked right at me in front of everyone and said, ‘Thank God you stepped up, Jane. You’re the SHARED Agent now. The program is secure.’ Just like that. It’s settled. I didn’t even have a say in it. Now I have to do it all ... alone.”

The weight of it crashed down on her again, and a fresh wave of tears came. “I can’t do this by myself, Peter. I thought we’d have each other. Now it’s just ... me.”

“Jane, listen to me,” Peter said, his voice firm yet gentle. “First, you are not alone. You have me. Every step of the way. Second, you’re doing it because you chose to. Because you’re the most capable, the most motivated person there. You have the heart for this, Jane. That’s why you’re the right one.”

He could hear her breathing beginning to slow, the hysterical edge receding into exhausted acceptance. “It’s going to be okay,” he continued, his voice a steady anchor. “We have our rule. We have our plan. You can do this. I know you can.”

There was a long silence on the other end, followed by the shaky sound of her exhale. “The program starts this afternoon,” she said, her voice steadier but still thin with the residue of her earlier tears. “The first participants arrive after lunch. The director just handed me their files. I haven’t even opened them yet.” She paused, and he could almost see her there, clutching the fresh, daunting paperwork.

Her professional composure fractured into a rushed, overwhelmed summary. “But he did tell me who they’re sending. They’re all classified as Tier 3 candidates—the highest risk category. Two teenagers and a young man in his early twenties.” She let out a heavy breath. “The director said the pilot is focusing on young men first. They’re statistically the most volatile demographic in the system, and Tier 3 means they have histories of violence, severe trauma, or institutional failure. But the theory is they also have the highest potential for change if the intervention works.” She paused, and the clinical detachment evaporated, leaving raw apprehension. “God, Peter. They’re sending me the hardest cases right out of the gate. It’s a massive challenge. It feels like standing at the bottom of a cliff.”

The silence that followed was heavy with her unspoken fear. When she spoke again, her voice was smaller, a mix of despair and stubborn hope. “But they’re just kids, really. That’s what gets me. Their ages ... it breaks my heart, but it also ... it makes me want to try. I have to believe there’s still a chance to reach them.” Her words faded into a quiet, vulnerable breath. “I just ... I hope that’s enough. I’m going to need your support, especially since you’ll be gone the next week.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper, laced with doubt. “My first task is just to ... welcome them. To try and make them feel safe. I don’t even know where to start with that.”

“Jane,” Peter said, his voice cutting gently through her spiral, a soft and immediate anchor. He didn’t let the silence linger. “That feeling? Standing at the bottom of the cliff? That’s not a weakness. It’s proof. Proof you see the real person, not just the file.” His tone was warm and unwavering, a deliberate calm poured into the space of her anxiety. “You don’t need to have all the answers today. You couldn’t. You just need to be you. Be the person who sees them. Your warmth, your calm ... that’s what ‘safe’ feels like to someone who’s never known it. Just be that person. Be comforting.”

He paused, letting the word resonate with all the history and trust they had built into it. “And just remember our rule ... be reasonable. Trust your instinct. It’s never led you wrong before.”

A soft, shaky sigh of relief came through the phone. “Okay,” she whispered, the word fragile but now firmly grounded. “Thank you. Thank you for saying that. For hearing me. I can ... I can do this. I will.”

“Good,” he said, his voice soft with a pride that felt like a physical warmth. “Now, go out there and show them the compassion that made you the right choice for this role. Show them that person I know you are.”

---

Evening

The heavy oak door groaned shut behind her, the familiar click of the latch sealing out the world. Jane leaned back against the solid wood for a long moment, eyes closed, drawing a shaky breath. The sanctuary of her home felt both comforting and strangely distant after the day she’d had. With a weary sigh, she let her work bag slide from her shoulder, its weight hitting the floor with a definitive thud.

Peter was already moving from the sofa, his laptop screen dimming as he stood. He didn’t ask if she was okay. He simply opened his arms, and she walked into them, her forehead finding its familiar place against the steady warmth of his chest. His hands were strong and sure on her back, holding her as the day’ frantic energy slowly bled away into the quiet of the room.

He guided her to the sofa, his hands a gentle pressure on her shoulders as she sank into the soft cushions with a long, shuddering exhalation.

“It’s done,” she breathed, the words tasting of the day’s exhaustion. “My first day as an SHARED Agent ... is officially over.”

“How was it?” he asked, his voice a low murmur as he settled beside her, his thigh a solid, comforting line pressed against hers.

“The three new clients,” she began, her voice gaining a sliver of strength. “Their names are Leo, Alex, and Kofi.” She said their names slowly, as if testing the weight of each one for the first time.

Peter’s brow furrowed slightly. “Kofi? That’s an interesting name. Where’s that from?”

A faint, almost imperceptible flush touched Jane’s neck. “Oh, Ghana, I believe. He told me during our session.” She quickly steered the conversation back, her voice softening as she now shared the discoveries of the day. “But the weariness ... you could see it weighing on him. On all of them, really. It was more than just wariness. They looked ... hollowed out.” She opened her eyes, staring at the ceiling as if the answers were written there. “So quiet. So still. It was like they’d learned to take up as little space as possible in this world.”

She shifted, turning to face him, her hands beginning to move as she spoke. “My task was a welcome session. To build a bridge. I set up a quiet corner of the common room, brought tea—chamomile—and some simple biscuits. I focused on making the space feel safe, reassuring them that there was no pressure and that I was there to listen. I asked gentle questions about their hopes for being here, or what might be worrying them, and gave them all the time in the world to answer.” A fragile, weary smile touched her lips. “Mostly, it was just silence. A lot of nervous nods, eyes that wouldn’t quite meet mine. But you learn to read the silence—the slight lean forward when you mention a hot shower, the flicker of eye contact when you promise no one will rush them. It’s not nothing.”

“Leo is seventeen,” she continued, her voice a mix of exhaustion and clinical observation. “He’s deeply withdrawn and clinically depressed. He barely spoke, responding to questions with flat, monosyllabic answers or just a shake of his head.” Her expression softened with pity. “His file lists petty theft, but looking at him ... it’s the crime of a ghost, not a criminal. He told me—in just a few, flat words—that he ran from his last foster placement because the mother was ‘mean,’ which the system notes strongly suggest was sustained emotional abuse. He just wanted to disappear, and stealing was how he survived once he did.”

She sighed, moving on. “Alex is sixteen. He’s a raw nerve. Jittery, couldn’t meet my eyes. He took a biscuit and dissected it into a perfect grid on his napkin—not eating, just controlling. It’s a textbook coping mechanism.” Her voice dropped, heavy with sadness. “He lost both parents in a car crash when he was fourteen. No extended family. He was on the streets by fifteen, and that’s when the opioid addiction started. His whole being is focused on not feeling that loss. It’s heartbreaking to witness.”

She paused, her gaze growing more distant and complex. “And Kofi ... he’s twenty-two,” she said, as if piecing it together aloud. “He served time for assault. The police report he mentioned suggested he was defending a woman being harassed, but it went too far. He was a different kind of tense. Not anxious, but aggressive. He sat there like he was waiting for a fight, his eyes constantly moving, assessing everything—the room, me, the others.” She bit her lip. “But then, when I mentioned the park and the woods nearby, something shifted. His shoulders dropped, just a fraction. That watchful, aggressive tension seemed to drain away for a moment. I jumped on it, asked him what the woods made him feel.” A faint, professional smile touched her lips at the memory. “‘Calm,’ he said. Just that one word, but it was the first thing he’d said that wasn’t guarded or challenging. So I asked what else made him feel that way. There was a long pause, and then he said, ‘Taking pictures.’ He said it quietly, like it was a secret. I acted comforting, impressed. I told him that was wonderful, that having an outlet like that was so important. I even laughed at myself a little and said I only ever took amateur selfies, that I had no real skill.”

Her expression sobered, the memory deepening. “He really opened up for a minute, Peter. Just a minute. He looked at me like I’d handed him something precious by not dismissing it. Then the shutters came down again, and he was back to being that guarded, tense man.” She looked at Peter, her professional detachment finally cracking to reveal a profound unease. “His file ... he went to prison for that assault, defending a complete stranger. And while he was inside, his wife left him. Filed for divorce. He got out with nothing. No good deed, right? There’s violence in his history, Peter. Not chaotic, but ... applied. And now it’s mixed with a betrayal that must feel absolute. He’s here because he doesn’t know how to turn the aggression off, and the world has given him nothing but reasons to keep it on.”

She looked down at her hands, knotted tightly together in her lap. “When the session ended, they all seemed desperate to retreat to their rooms. Leo and Alex slipped away quickly, but Kofi lingered by his door. When I told him I’d see him later, this ... this wave of anxiety just washed over him. He asked me, in that rough, hesitant voice, if I’d really be here this afternoon. When I said yes, the relief was so complete it was almost painful to watch. His whole body seemed to collapse, like he’d been holding himself rigid since he arrived and could finally let go.”

She met Peter’s eyes, her expression layered with professional concern and private unease. “Just as I was turning to leave, he brought up what I’d said earlier. He asked about the selfies I’d mentioned—the ones I joked about taking. He wanted to know when I did it.” A faint, self-conscious blush coloured her cheeks. “I felt a little shy admitting it, but I told him it was just a morning ritual. Something silly to check my hair or my outfit before a big day.”

Jane fell quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing the weave of the sofa cushion. “He seemed genuinely interested. He asked if he could see one, and he said it with such earnestness. Talking about pictures brought back that same calm I’d seen in him earlier.” She let out a soft, measured breath. “I hesitated. It felt personal, a line I wasn’t sure I should cross. But after everything he’d shared, that fragile thread of connection ... The word we’d chosen last night floated to the surface of my mind. Reasonable. Was this reasonable? It was just a photo, after all. A professional, harmless gesture. A small offering of trust to someone who had so little. I didn’t want to be the one to sever that thread.”

“So ... you showed him?” Peter asked. His voice was carefully level, but beneath the surface she could detect a subtle, resonant curiosity.

“I did,” she admitted, her tone soft. “Just the one from this morning—the picture I took to check my outfit for the ministry meeting. My hair was up, a simple, professional smile. Nothing more.” A small, genuine smile touched her lips at the memory. “When he looked at it on my phone ... it was like watching ice thaw. His shoulders dropped, the tension in his jaw just vanished, and he gave me this real, unguarded smile. He said it was a nice picture, but mentioned softly that the light was a bit flat—that it could have been better. Then he handed the phone back, said a quiet ‘thank you,’ and finally went into his room.”

“I’d really like to see that picture,” Peter murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble. “The one that holds that kind of power.”

Wordlessly, Jane unlocked her phone, her fingers moving with a practiced ease that belied the significance of the act. She found the image and handed the device to him.

Peter studied it. The screen glowed with her face—composed, kind, the picture of professional warmth. It was, as she’d said, lovely and entirely innocent. A slow, appreciative smile touched his lips, but his eyes held a deeper, more complex appreciation. “It’s beautiful,” he said, his thumb stroking the edge of the phone. “And perfectly reasonable. I’m glad showing it to him gave him that comfort.”

“It did,” she said, a sliver of confidence returning to her voice as she took the phone back. “Being able to reach him like that, with something so simple ... it felt powerful. In a reassuring way.”