The system always talks about "the best interest of the child,"
but nothing they did next looked anything like protection.
Because when they stopped my visits…
my girls didn't just feel disappointed.
They broke.
---
I didn't hear it from the worker.
Of course not.
They never tell a mother the truth.
I heard it from someone who still had a conscience—
a therapist, a staff member, someone who saw the aftermath and couldn't stay quiet.
The message came in pieces:
"Your oldest cried so hard she threw up."
"Your youngest kept asking if you forgot her."
"They thought you didn't want to come."
"They're scared they did something wrong."
"They're having nightmares again."
Every sentence hit like a punch.
I sat there gripping my phone, my breath stuck in my throat,
because I knew this wasn't just sadness.
This was trauma.
The kind that lingers for years.
The kind that plants seeds of abandonment deep inside a child's heart.
The kind they'll one day unpack in therapy, wondering why love hurt so much when it shouldn't have.
And the worst part?
I couldn't fix it.
I couldn't hold them.
I couldn't tell them the truth.
The system stole my voice from their ears.
They stole my arms from their bodies.
They stole my presence from their healing.
---
My oldest—strong, mature, wise beyond her years—
became silent.
Not angry.
Not acting out.
Just… quiet.
The worker reported that she "shut down,"
like her little mind decided the safest way to survive
was to disappear inside herself.
She wouldn't speak in therapy.
Wouldn't eat normally.
Wouldn't smile.
"She keeps staring at the door," someone said.
"As if she's waiting for someone to walk in."
I knew who.
And I knew she would wait forever if she had to.
---
My youngest didn't go silent.
She went frantic.
Storms of tears.
Full-body sobbing.
Screaming for me in the middle of the night.
They said she stood by the window at the foster home and cried until she fell asleep against the glass—
tiny hands pressed against the cold surface
like she was reaching for something she didn't have words for.
She kept asking the same question over and over:
"Where's my mommy? What did I do wrong?"
A child shouldn't even know questions like that exist.
---
The system thought stopping visits would punish me.
They didn't realize the real damage would land directly on my daughters—
because children don't understand policy.
They don't understand investigations.
They don't understand power plays.
All they understand is absence.
All they feel is emptiness.
All they know is:
Mommy didn't come this time.
And it didn't matter how many lies the worker told them to soften it—
"Mommy needed a break."
"Mommy will come next time."
"Mommy is busy right now."
Kids hear the words,
but they feel the truth.
They knew something was wrong.
They felt the shift.
Their hearts reacted before their minds could.
---
Hearing how they suffered woke something violent inside me—
not the kind of violence that harms people…
but the kind that drives a mother to fight with teeth bared and claws out.
Because if the system thought I was intense before,
they had no idea who they were dealing with now.
They didn't just break rules.
They broke my daughters' hearts.
And if there's one thing a mother never forgives,
it's seeing her babies hurt for no reason.
This wasn't just about reunification anymore.
This was about justice for the emotional damage they created.
This was about righting a wrong so deep
it carved itself into the core of my girls' childhood.
And I promised myself one thing in that moment:
They will never go another day thinking I abandoned them.
I will make sure the truth reaches them.
I will make sure they know I never stopped fighting.
Not for a second.