I told myself I was neutral. Just the building super. Just the guy with keys, a clipboard, and enough distance to stay out of trouble. When Dahlia moved into our Scarborough high-rise with her son and a life held together by paperwork, she looked like someone you could either help or quietly crush. Management chose the second option—and I became the tool that made it work.

At first, my “silence” felt smart. Safer. I wasn’t the landlord. I wasn’t the one writing threats or raising rent. I just stopped returning calls. “Misplaced” mail. Enforced rules like they were law. Every time she came to me shaking, asking for basic dignity, I answered with calm nothingness—policy-shaped silence. And the building learned from me. Neighbours stopped looking at her. Doors stopped opening. Help stopped arriving. I didn’t lock her in a room. I helped shrink the world around her until fear was the only thing that fit.

Then she brought a legal advocate into the lobby, and her son held up a phone. One recording. One moment where my mouth got sloppy—too much rage, too many swear words—and suddenly my quiet complicity had a voice. My name got written down. My behaviour became evidence. And the same people who used my silence turned around and reminded me how replaceable I was.

I thought staying quiet would protect me. It didn’t. It turned me into infrastructure—into the lock on someone else’s door—until the door finally slammed and I was left holding nothing but the damage.