Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
I never really thought of it that way.
In the thick of it, yeah, I mean, I was doing all the care tasks: feeding, changing, playing, treating sickness, bathing, putting everyone to bed, doing the cleaning and the laundry.
Then, almost as soon as one child or group went to new foster homes or back to their families, another child or group appeared.
There was no downtime to really think about the whole situation.
Looking back, though, yeah, she was right. Those were my kids. I didn’t just do the tasks because I had to—though I did—but because I cared. You couldn’t take care of someone day in and day out and not become attached. I slept on the floor near their beds or cribs when they were sick. I stressed when they were struggling with school. I worried about their happiness and my capabilities.
And, yeah, it felt like a little piece got chiseled off my heart each time one of those kids left.
“How did it eventually end?”
“It went on for years. I dropped out at seventeen. Took jobs here or there when I could because the kids needed shit that their checks weren’t paying for.
“Getting out more, exposed me to the shit I was missing, to how fucked up the situation was. Around that time, my dad’s affairs were getting outta control. And my ma was getting more and more outta control. I thought she was just boozing more than ever. Until I found a meth pipe in her drawer.”
“Each time I think it can’t possibly get worse,” Zoe interrupted.
“This is the home stretch. At the time, the house had seven foster kids. Which was fucking insane. The limit for kids in the house—including biological kids—was eight. So we were maxed out. And at the time, the oldest was eight. There was a set of twin three-month-olds, toddlers. It was too much. I’d had enough.
“So I did the only thing I could to finally end it. I contacted DCF with an anonymous tip about my mother’s drug use. And empty cabinets. Then I spent the next few days making sure there was nothing left in any of the cabinets. Got rid of all the evidence of food after each meal.
“Sure enough, the knock came one day. Random check. The lady had been pissed about the cabinets for sure. But then she went upstairs with me following behind, holding both babies, to find my mom so fucking high that there was no denying she was on something.
“The kids were immediately removed.”
I remembered the guilt of that night, the way one of the toddlers clutched my pant leg, the way another’s lower lip had wobbled. How the babies immediately went fussy in the arms of DCF workers.
“You did what you thought was best for them,” Zoe said, giving my leg a squeeze again.
“Did I?” I asked, glancing over at her. “Or did I just do what was best for me?”
“Hey, the choice had never been yours. You didn’t agree to do that work. Those children went to places that did make that choice and agree to that work. People who would put the money toward the kids. Who had the means to take care of the kids.”
“Yeah,” I agreed.
But I was still struggling with that choice.
I hadn’t let myself think about it much since that day. Anytime the memories popped up, I tamped them down with partying, with fucking, with fighting, with any kind of crazy activity I could find.
It wasn’t until Zoe—and, particularly, Lil’ Bit—that it all came back to the surface. Especially when Zoe had been sick and I’d been the one fully taking care of Lainey.
The coos and hoots brought back fifteen other babies and the time I spent rocking them, feeding them, giving them tummy time so their neck muscles developed, getting to share their first smiles and their belly laughs.
Only now—older, not so riddled with responsibility and the bitterness that came with that—I felt a tug. A regret. A sadness at all that loss.
“Have you ever found any of the kids?” Zoe asked.
“What?”
“I mean, I guess maybe the babies wouldn’t remember you. But the older kids. Have you ever tried to see what they’re up to?”
The thought had never crossed my mind.
“No.”
“Do you not remember their names?”
“I remember everything about them.”
Full names, the years they were born, allergies, likes, dislikes, traumas, physical difficulties, their fears, who was plagued with nightmares, which songs they danced and sang, the silly little things some said they wanted to be when they grew up.
“Maybe you should see if you can find some of them. Even just on social media. Maybe that would help with the guilt you feel about the whole thing: to see that they’re doing well.”
“And if they aren’t?”
“That’s still not on you. There were other families after you, their own families, even. They might remember you and want to be in touch. But they wouldn’t remember names like you do.”