Room for Better

Imagine:

Your child has been taken away.

The people take her ask you to help them pack her things. You shake as you stuff her favorite hoodie and jeans into the trash bags they provided. You find a pair of socks with a hole in the toe and wonder, is this why they’re taking her? You wish you had a suitcase. Or some boxes. They tell you, “Oh, this is how we pack most kids. Don’t worry.”

The people load the trash bags into the car. You feel the scream rising in your throat like bile. You swallow it. You try to hug your child goodbye. Your arms are made of glass.

The people who take her are almost kind. They tell you she will be safe. That they will take care of her.

The people who've taken her will not tell you where she's going. They will not call you to say they've found her a place for the night.

Something ugly lives in you now. Your child has been taken, you tell yourself. Taken. Taken. You will hold the word like a talisman on your tongue for the next six months as everyone else tries to twist the story, tell you you lost your child. As if you forgot her on the counter at the store, next to your car keys, or your wallet.

Maybe you drink. Maybe you don’t. Maybe you eye the needle and its promise of oblivion.

You don’t sleep. You dread waking up. You know that for one tiny moment, you’d forget. You’d open your eyes and look for her. And it would hit you again.

You don’t know if you could survive the realization.

*

The next morning, you get a phone call from a young-sounding woman who identifies herself as, "A foster parent with the department of children and families." And the next sentence: "We have your child. She's doing fine. Would you like to talk to her?"

The scream rises in your throat again. You try to breathe with relief, and the shame chokes you. You try to pass it off like you’re clearing your throat.

Your daughter’s voice sounds flat, like someone ran it through a meat grinder and smoothed out the flecks of laughter and sass. She doesn’t say much.

You say I love you. You want to make promises, give explanations, but you know instinctively that the nice-sounding woman could hang up on you at any moment. Your entire connection to your child depends on whether she thinks you’re a threat. You tell your child you hope she’s remembering to brush your teeth, say your prayers, use your manners. As if she’s at a sleepover. As if any of this is normal.

*

How do you feel, knowing that most parents never get that call the next morning? That foster parents in many states are trained not to reach out, and given no contact information for parents? (If we get it, it comes from the kids.)

How do you feel, knowing that you have to wait for someone from the department to reach out to you to schedule a court-approved supervised visit? That you have no say over when or how it will happen?

If you take your child to summer camp, you see where they are going to sleep. Maybe you make their bed. You chat with the counselors to whom you will entrust her care for the next week or three or six. You leave satisfied that your child is in good hands.

Imagine if you couldn't. Imagine if you didn't have the right.

Imagine if all you had was the phone number for a social worker who wouldn't pick up, and page after page of articles and websites detailing abuse in foster care.

*

If a child in my care says, “I don’t want to talk to my parent,” I don’t make them. Ever. I will, however, ask, “Can I send them a picture of you? Can I tell them you’re okay?” We’re always able to work out some kind of compromise.

It’s not a kindness. It’s an act of humanity.

There’s a lot that’s cruel about this system. Note: I didn’t say broken. The child welfare system is set up in a way that punishes parents. That’s part of the design. Punishment. Judgment. Lack of dignity.

But even within a capricious system, there is room for moments of humanity. Of embracing the tiny threads that connect us, instead of pretending they aren’t there.

There is room for better. This is one way I make it.