Mrs. Cloutier, however, is strictly vile. Zero out of ten, and I don’t say this lightly. She is a co-op board harpy with entirely too much time on her hands and not enough relatives checking in on her well-being. Right now she’s hovering over Dad like a bird of prey who’s come across a juicy mouse she’s too full to eat but not too full to paw at for a few minutes.

“And while I’m down here, I’ll remind you I saw another one,” Mrs. Cloutier continues, apparently in no hurry to go home tonight.

“We’re spraying twice a month now, ma’am. That’s what is budgeted for by the co-op.”

“Well, don’t you have some connections? ‘Hook-ups,’ as they say? I am not comfortable seeing cockroaches around my kitchen every week, Jacques. This must be remedied.”

“Yes, Mrs. Cloutier.”

“Can you offer me any solution, or are you just comfortable nodding at your failures? I don’t know what you’re used to here, on the ground floor, hygiene wise,” she says, glancing over to our apartment down the hall to cement her point. And oh, my God, go fist yourself, lady.

Dad’s neck is clenched throughout the rest of the interaction, and eventually, Cloutier seems satisfied when he promises to stop by her unit the next morning. Her good-night comes in the form of a loud and heavy sigh, followed by an “honestly!” under her breath.

“Doesn’t it make you angry?” I ask, finally, as we both watch her disappear into the overcast street. “To be talked to like that?”

“Every time.” Dad sighs, hands on his hips and fingers digging into his jumpsuit as he does that thing where he invites calm back into his body. “But this isn’t my life’s work, kid. It’s just work. Although, glad your mom wasn’t here for that one.”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I say.

“Why? You didn’t raise that horrible woman.”

He’s trying to laugh it off but is still visibly upset. His tell is in his immediate aligning of his tools by his side, diligently placing them back into his toolkit, each still shiny and rust free despite years of usage because Dad takes care of meticulously polishing them at least once a year.

“Maybe Cloutier would stop if you—I don’t know—stood your ground more?”

Maybe there is another way to go about life beyond keeping your head down and getting pummeled until the Cloutiers of the world are satisfied.