“The locks,” I started, my voice steady. “They’re still a problem.”
He glanced at the door, a flicker of acknowledgment crossing his face.
“We’re working on it,” he replied, the same vague answer I had heard before.
The conversation felt like a loop, each repetition a reminder of my powerlessness.
He moved through the apartment quickly, barely pausing to check anything.
My father’s presence seemed to go unnoticed, his frailty invisible to eyes that chose not to see.
As the manager turned to leave, I felt a surge of frustration.
“When can we expect the repairs?” I asked, my voice firmer.
He paused, as if considering whether to answer truthfully or offer another placating lie.
“Soon,” he said, a word that held no weight anymore.
