I hear her coming from afar, her voice is shrill, scratched and full of dents. Parents with kids fill the street, it’s drop-off time. Everyone can hear the words she throws into her phone, and we are all looking. Despair hangs from her shoulders but her feet keep walking. Big steps. Her little son, with the blue backpack neatly on his back, tries to keep up. She doesn’t look back to see if he succeeds and the little boy crosses the road without looking, his eyes only on his mom. We all check whether there is no car coming. A cyclist stops for him, thankfully. She is now almost shouting: don’t say that! I don’t believe you! Don’t say it!