Donovan

I adjusted my collar one last time and took a deep breath. The green and white knitted polo, black baggy trousers, and black dress shoes were a deliberate choice—casual but professional, approachable but polished. My hair was styled in two-strand twists and I actually felt confident in my appearance.

This was a new chapter, one where I could finally start making the difference I’d always envisioned.

When I first left high school, the plan had been clear: finish my bachelor's, move straight into medical school, and become a doctor. But life, as it always does, had other plans. It wasn’t just about the title or the career path anymore—it was about doing something that mattered.

Jeremy used to say I was too idealistic, that I always wanted to save the world. Maybe he was right, but watching his mom handle her cases back home had left an impression on me. She wasn’t saving the world, not exactly, but she was saving pieces of it, one person at a time. That was enough to make me rethink everything.

Still, the way everything tied back to Jeremy made it hard to sort through my feelings. I wasn’t here because of him—not entirely. 

The receptionist, a man with a neat haircut and warm brown skin, looked up as I approached. “Good morning,” he greeted, his voice friendly but formal. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, good morning,” I replied, trying to sound calm despite the knot in my stomach. “I’m Donovan King, the new social worker.”

“Ah, welcome! I’m Aaron, the receptionist,” he said, standing briefly. He offered me a friendly smile before sitting back down. “Please, have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”

“Thanks,” I said, heading to the waiting area. The chairs were uncomfortable, but I had expected it. 

A woman walked in after a few minutes, heels clicking sharply on the polished floors, her steps echoing down the hallway. She was in her forties, wearing a tailored navy blazer, dark hair slicked back into a neat bun.  Her gaze was cool as she looked me over, her expression neutral, but I could see that she was assessing my appearance.

“Mr. King?” she said, her tone clipped, not a greeting but a statement of fact.

“Yes, that’s me,” I replied, standing to shake her hand.

“I’m Mrs. Clarke, your supervisor. Welcome to Haven Care Center. Let me give you a quick tour.” Her handshake was brief, and she turned without waiting for me to respond, clearly expecting me to follow.

As we walked through the halls, Mrs. Clarke rattled off information about the various programs and rooms. Everything looked clean. The walls were painted in neutral tones with every corner well-kept.

“This will be your office,” Mrs. Clarke said, stopping in front of a room. She opened the door to reveal a simple desk, two chairs, and a small shelf. Everything was minimal.

I stepped in, already imagining how I could personalize the space. A rug, some posters, a plant and some flowers. I wanted it to be a place where kids felt safe to talk.

“Thank you,” I said.

Mrs. Clarke nodded, her gaze flickering over the room. “There’s a staff meeting shortly. You’ll meet the other social workers and get a better sense of how things operate here,” she said, turning to lead me back out into the hallway.

As I followed her back into the hall, I couldn’t shake the discomfort that had been building since she first looked at me.  She didn't resemble the person who had interviewed me in the summer. I knew she wasn’t like she was trying to be hostile, but there was something in her demeanor—a quiet, almost polite detachment—that felt too familiar.

Moving to the Netherlands had been a culture shock in more ways than one. It wasn’t just learning to navigate conversations in Dutch; it was the uncanny situations I found myself in often. I’d gone from being surrounded by people who looked like me and understood my experiences to being a minority in spaces where my presence was met with microaggressions or outright rudeness. The casual racism—the offhand comments, the reluctance to hold themselves accountable for their biases, the dismissal of any critique as “too sensitive”—was exhausting.

But this was the kind of work I wanted to do. To be the person I needed when I was growing up. But even with that purpose driving me forward, I was already reminded of how exhausting it could be to navigate spaces where I didn’t feel like I belonged.

I shook off the doubt. After all, I had worked hard to get here, and I wasn't about to let anything derail me. I was going to make it work.

Mrs. Clarke led me into the conference room where two others were already seated. A middle-aged man, Mr. Jacobs, introduced himself, offering a firm handshake. He had a warmth to him that immediately put me at ease. The younger woman, Ms. Peters, gave a curt nod and didn’t offer her hand. Her sharp gaze sized me up, cold and distant.

"As the meeting began, Mrs. Clarke ran through the agenda, assigning tasks and highlighting upcoming priorities. Everything seemed routine until she brought up a case.

"The case involving Malik Warner, which we’re taking over from the public sector, now includes a potential concern related to his LGBTQ+ identity. I sent an email to each of you highlighting general information about him and what needs to be done."

Ms. Peters made a noise of annoyance.“Do we really need to prioritize that? It’s not like we don’t have enough on our plates already.”

Mr. Jacobs frowned, his voice, stern but calm. “Every case deserves attention, Peters.”

“Well,” she said, glancing pointedly at me, her eyes narrow, “maybe someone with more... insight into that kind of thing should take it on.”

The room fell quiet, and I could feel the tension thickening in the air.

Mrs. Clarke cleared her throat, glancing between us. “Let’s keep personal opinions out of it,” she said, but her tone lacked conviction.

I clenched my hands under the table, trying to decide whether to speak up or let it slide. It was only my first day, but the hostility was already making itself known. And yet, I couldn’t remain silent. Not now. Not when the work I was here to do mattered so much.

"Can you clarify what you mean, Ms. Peters?" I asked, my voice steady but firm. I met her eyes, trying to hold her gaze, letting her know I wasn’t intimidated.

Her lips thinned as she hesitated, clearly thrown off by my directness. “I’m just saying that it’s obvious what you are,” she replied sharply. “So you taking the case shouldn’t be an issue. You get to show us what you’ve got.”

Before I could start my response, Mr. Jacobs turned to me, his expression softening with quiet support. “Young man, you don’t have to take this case if you don’t want to. No one here should be forced into anything they aren’t comfortable with.”

His words were kind, but they felt like a double-edged sword. Part of me wanted to let it go, to avoid the confrontation altogether, but another part of me knew that staying silent would only set a precedent that I wasn’t willing to accept.

“I appreciate that, Mr. Jacobs,” I said, forcing a smile. “But I’d like to hear more about this case before making a decision.”

Ms. Peters huffed, leaning back in her chair. “It’s a waste of time. These kinds of cases rarely go anywhere. It’s just a lot of drama with no payoff.”

“Drama?” I asked, my tone hardening. “This isn’t about drama. It’s about a child in need of support, isn’t it?”

She shrugged, her eyes avoiding mine now. “You’ll see what I mean soon enough.”

Mr. Jacobs cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, his discomfort evident. “Well, Donovan, if you’re still interested, the file will be placed in your office after the meeting. Take a look and decide how you want to proceed.”

I nodded, grateful for the out. “Thank you. I’ll do that.”

The meeting ended shortly after, but the tension lingered with me as I walked to my office. I sat back in the chair, staring at the case file in front of me. I hadn’t even opened it yet, but the weight of the conversation still pressed on me.

I had come here for a reason. Social work wasn’t the most glamorous job, but it was fulfilling, especially when it came to helping kids who didn’t have anyone else to turn to.

I  didn’t see it as drama. I saw it as a young person in need of guidance, in need of someone who could understand him, not just judge him. I closed my eyes, gathering my thoughts, feeling more certain about my decision to take the case.

I flipped the file open, determined to help this child—just like I wished someone had been there for me. My fingers brushed over the worn edges of the papers inside. 

 Malik was 14 years old, and the report detailed his family situation—an absent father, a mother who was struggling to make ends meet, and a series of schools where he’d never quite found his place. The words blurred together as I read through the social worker's notes.

Malik had been through a lot—dealing with a strained family dynamic, navigating school life, and battling a constant sense of isolation. The report also highlighted his struggles with bullying, which had been a persistent issue. He was often involved in altercations, defending himself against those who picked on him. Unfortunately, his defense mechanisms sometimes got him into trouble, and he found himself in the principal’s office more often than not.

There were also mentions of Malik’s struggles with his identity, trying to understand and express his feelings. The previous social worker noted that Malik might be questioning his orientation, but no real progress had been made. 

It was clear that Malik wasn’t just struggling with being accepted by his family or classmates—he was struggling with himself. And here I was, about to step into that whirlwind. 

I thought back to when I was Malik's age, lost in my confusion. My family struggled to understand me, and even my dad had a hard time connecting. Without my mom’s support, I don’t know how I would’ve made it through. 

The door creaked open, and I looked up to see Mr. Jacobs standing in the doorway, a warm smile on his face.

"How’s it going, Donovan? Everything okay?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

I leaned forward, grateful for the break from the tension. "Yeah, just… getting settled in," I replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Well, that’s to be expected. Not everyone makes the transition as easily as they'd like. But you’re here for a reason," Jacobs said with a knowing look. He paused, glancing over at the file on my desk. "Listen, Donovan, I just wanted to check-in. Will you be taking the Malik case?"

I met his gaze without hesitation. "Yeah, I will be taking it," I said, keeping my tone steady, not giving anything away. I didn’t feel the need to explain myself to him or anyone else.

Jacobs gave a slow nod, processing my answer. "I figured you would. Malik's a tough case. A lot of history there." His smile shifted slightly, softening. "But I’m glad you're taking it on. He needs a fresher approach."

"Thanks," I said, feeling the weight of his words sink in. 

Jacobs folded his arms, his gaze steady as he spoke. "We’ve got plenty of support here, so don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything. Have you heard of the Indigo Initiative? It’s an LGBTQ+ organization I often collaborate with. They could be a valuable resource for Malik’s case, especially regarding some of the challenges he might be facing."

That’s where Jeremy works, I thought to myself, the connection sparking a mix of curiosity and unease.

"It’s a facility run by Asa, a solid woman who knows the ropes when it comes to handling cases like Malik’s," Jacobs continued. "They’ve got resources and experience working with kids who need that extra bit of understanding. If you ever need help or advice with this case, they could be a valuable resource."

I felt a sense of relief wash over me. "That sounds really helpful. I’ll definitely keep it in mind."

"Good," Jacobs said with a nod. "Because the work you’ll be doing here? It’s important. You’re not just here for the easy cases. You’re here to make a real change. And sometimes, that means pushing through the tension, not letting people like Ms. Peters get under your skin."

I nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle on my shoulders. "I appreciate it, Mr. Jacobs. Thanks for the advice."

"Anytime," Jacobs replied, his expression warm. "Good luck with your first case. And remember, we’re all here to help."

After he left, I sat back in my chair, taking a deep breath. There was a lot more to navigate than I’d expected, but I wasn’t backing down. Not now. Not ever.

 I dialed Mrs. Clarke’s extension, ready to confirm I’d take the case. She picked up on the third ring.

"Mrs. Clarke, it’s Donovan. I wanted to confirm that I’ll be taking Malik’s case," I said, my voice steady.

There was a brief pause on the other end. "Good," she said, her tone neutral. "Malik’s a tough one, but I believe you can handle it. Just remember to keep me updated, and don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything."

"I will. Thanks, Mrs. Clarke," I replied.

I hung up the phone, the finality of my decision settling in. Malik’s case was now in my hands, and I wasn’t going to let him become just another statistic. I was going to fight for him, no matter what.