The first time I saw my girls after the removal, I didn't sleep the night before.
I lay awake staring at the ceiling, replaying everything I'd ever done wrong, everything they might be thinking, every way the world might be changing them without me. The space beside me felt too big, too cold. I kept imagining their little bodies curled into mine, the way their breathing used to sync with mine when they fell asleep.
It had only been a few weeks, but grief stretches time like a rubber band—it makes days feel like months.
The visit was scheduled at the DHS office.
A building with flickering lights, scuffed walls, and hallways that smelled like stale coffee and waiting. People walked with that same heavy look—parents trying to look brave, children clutching stuffed animals like shields, workers carrying files like weapons.
When the receptionist told me to sign in, my hands shook so hard she had to steady the clip board. I felt like a child being sent to the principal's office instead of a mother going to see her babies.
"They'll bring them in," the worker said.
Her tone too professional, too distant, as if she didn't realize this was the moment I'd been waking up dying for.
I sat in a small room with toys that looked like they'd been played with by a hundred broken families before mine. The clock ticked so loud it drowned out my heartbeat.
Then I heard footsteps.
Light ones.
Familiar ones.
The door opened.
And there they were.
My oldest came in first, a little more serious, a little more guarded. She looked older somehow, like the world had pushed her forward in time. My youngest followed, holding a caseworker's hand—something that felt like a punch straight to my gut.
For a second, they just stared at me.
Not because they didn't know me…
But because love is confusing when it's supervised.
Then—
"Mama!"
She ran to me so fast it knocked the breath out of my chest. I dropped to my knees, arms wide, and she collided into me with all the force of a child who'd been holding herself together for too long. Her tiny arms wrapped around my neck like she was afraid someone would pull her away again.
My oldest took a little longer. She stood there, lip trembling, eyes glossy, fighting the tears she'd promised herself she wouldn't cry. When she finally stepped toward me, it was slow, hesitant—like the world had taught her in just a few weeks that nothing was certain.
When she reached me, she curled into my side and whispered, "Are we coming home now?"
God.
If heartbreak had a sound, it would have been my silence in that moment.
Because you can't lie to them—not in front of the worker who writes everything down.
"I'm working on it, baby," I whispered. "Mama's doing everything she can."
The worker cleared her throat, pretending she wasn't listening.
The visit went too fast.
We colored pictures.
We played with dolls.
We laughed like we were trying to make up for every second we'd lost.
But underneath it all was fear—mine and theirs.
Every time I hugged them, I wondered if the worker thought it was "too emotional."
Every time they clung to me, I worried it would be reported as "attachment concerns."
Every time they asked when they could come home, the worker scribbled something in her notes.
Supervised love doesn't feel like love—it feels like performing motherhood under a microscope.
At one point, my youngest climbed into my lap and said, "Mama, I don't like that house. I want you."
My oldest looked away, her small shoulders shaking. "It's not the same there," she whispered.
It took everything in me not to fall apart right then.
Everything.
But the clock doesn't stop for mothers in pain.
The worker eventually stood and said, "Five more minutes."
Five minutes.
Five minutes to say everything.
Five minutes to memorize their faces.
Five minutes to be the mother I used to be before the state took over.
When she finally said "Time's up," it felt like someone reached into my chest and ripped out the last working part of me.
The girls clung to me, crying, begging, reaching—little hands slipping away as the worker gently but firmly pulled them toward the door.
"Mama! Mommy! Please!"
I stood there frozen.
Because if I moved, I'd collapse.
If I chased them, I'd never get them back.
The door closed with a click.
That goddamn click.
It was becoming the soundtrack of this chapter of my life.
When the worker returned, she smiled a practiced smile and said, "They'll be okay."
No.
They wouldn't.
And neither would I—at least not yet.
I walked out of that building with tears burning my eyes, not because I was weak, but because the world had just shown me the hardest truth of them all:
Loving your children isn't enough.
You have to prove it.
Document it.
Schedule it.
Survive it.
And that was the day I realized I wasn't just fighting for my girls.
I was fighting for the right to be their mother again.