The Day the Cycle Ended: A Mother’s Promise
My earliest memories are hazy, like watching the world through a fogged window. But the day my mother left me? That memory is sharp, carved into me like stone.
I was nine—buzzing with excitement over a perfect score on a spelling test—when I walked into our kitchen and found her sobbing at the table. Her eyes were swollen, her voice trembling.
“Stacey,” she said, barely able to look at me, “I just can’t do this anymore.”
On the table sat a piece of paper. One word leapt out: custody. It was the end. Social services had stepped in. She promised it was temporary. She handed me a garbage bag full of clothes and said, “Be good. I’ll get back on my feet.”
A social worker named Mrs. Patterson—kind eyes, warm smile—took me to a group home. My room had twin beds and a window with bars. Every day, I asked, “When is my mom coming back?” And every time, Mrs. Patterson gently said, “Soon.”
I believed her. For two whole years.
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