Cassandra Cain was raised as a living weapon.

She was isolated from contact with other people, deprived of all but the most basic language. She was taught to kill, and by the time she was a teenager, she’d done so enough times to lose count.

Then, one night, everything changed. It changed because one of her victims begged her, “Tell my daughter…” He spent what was supposed to be his last moment thinking about someone else. And though Cassandra doesn’t have an exact frame of reference for the word or the relationship it implied, she can tell, from the look in the man’s eyes, how important that “daughter” is to him and what he must mean to her.

She doesn’t have that relationship with her own father. He is the person who isolated her, who refused to allow her to form bonds with anyone. He denied her words. He denied her love. He denied her potential and possibility.

He denied her a trusted adult.

Children should be able to trust their parents. They should be able to depend on us for safety, for concern, for love. We’re supposed to teach them how to be people; in bringing them into the world or adopting them and bringing them into our lives, that’s the contract we’re making, the oath we’re swearing.

Some people discover they can’t keep those promises. Some people choose not to. I’m not here to make a value judgment on that. What I’m here to do is talk about being a trusted adult for a kiddo who finds themself without one.

Cass stumbles upon her first trusted adult, Jackie, who finds Cass cold and alone, eating out of the dumpster behind Jackie’s noodle shop. She invites Cass inside and feeds her, though Cass ultimately runs after having a flashback to her days as her father’s prisoner. But Jackie doesn’t give up; every time she sees Cass, she offers a little more. First food, then a bath. Clean clothes. Another meal. She waits for Cass to come to her, waits to ask questions until Cass is ready to tell her story, and then Jackie listens.

She assures Cass, “It’s okay not to be okay.” And that even though Cass may be her father’s daughter, she isn’t her father. That she made a different choice, which is her strength.

Jackie helps Cass learn how to be human. How to be herself. How to ask for what she needs. That mistakes can be forgiven. Jackie teaches Cass how to be part of a family.

Cass finds her second trusted adult in Barbara Gordon. Barbara, who has her own history of trauma, has also had to rediscover herself – to remake herself after someone took her choice away. Who, rather than isolating, has grown her world with compassion and empathy. She spends her time helping others find their own strengths and potential. Barbara helps others stretch for their possibility, even if doing so is frightening or even a bit dangerous.

Neither of these women has to help Cass. They’re not social workers or CYS staff. They don’t run shelters or soup kitchens. Jackie and Babs choose to help Cass because they see a kid who needs a trusted adult, realize there’s no one else stepping up to take that role, and move to do so because they know it’s not simply something every kid should have but something every kid needs.

We’re all busy. We have a job or jobs. Our own kids to raise and pick up after school and get to baseball or watch at hockey. Science projects we’re very sure we’ve explained thoroughly 35 times and yet somehow need to explain four more times. Laundry to collect from the strangest places. Dinners to cook, lunches to produce as if by magic… I could go on but I’m sure you get the point.

Your kids have friends, though, right? Of course they do. And maybe one of their friends is over at your house and something rings your alarm bells. Maybe it’s something specific. Maybe it’s just a weird feeling in your gut. Regardless of what triggered the alert, your response should be the same.

Ask questions.

Ask that child how they’re doing. Ask them how school is going. Ask about their teachers or their siblings or their dog. Ask what their favorite subject is or if they think fractions are more interesting than decimals. What did they do in art this week? How many of their masterpieces are on the fridge? What’s the best book they’ve read this month? What’s their favorite kind of cookie and would they like to make some? Ask them something. Ask them anything.

The content of the question isn’t important. What matters is that you asked.

Keep the questions open ended if you can. Give them a chance to follow a train of thought in their answer. Maybe they’ll wander over to what’s bothering them. Maybe they won’t, and that’s okay. If they do, perhaps you’ll be able to do something about it and perhaps you won’t; we can’t, unfortunately, do magic or work miracles.

But it really doesn’t take much to show a child we care about them.

Does it take time? Yes. Does it mean we may have to stay up later? That we may watch a little less TV? Get the kids to bed a bit later? Have to rush in the morning? Lose our alone time? Miss a deadline? All those things are possible. But you’ve made a difference in a child’s life. You’ve shown them there is at least one adult in the world they can trust. And just like it changed Cass’s life, you’ll changed that child’s life too.

If you suspect abuse or neglect of a minor, you can report it to your local branch of child and youth services anonymously (you should be able to Google the hotline for your county). Remember that the most important thing is keeping everyone, including yourself and your family, safe. If immediate intervention is necessary for the safety of the child, the best thing to do is contact local law enforcement and allow them to determine what action needs to be taken and how it should be carried out.