People like to say the system is there to help families reunite,
but that's not how it felt—not for me.
Every time I took a step toward getting my girls back, it felt like someone was right behind me kicking my ankles out, watching me fall just to write down how "unstable" I looked.
It started with the case plan.
Paperwork on top of paperwork.
Classes, meetings, drug tests, therapy appointments, parenting courses, home visits.
Most of them scheduled across town, some overlapping, many in buildings that looked like they hadn't seen a fresh coat of paint since the '90s.
And if I missed one?
Just one?
It went down in the file like a strike.
No one cared if I couldn't get a ride.
No one cared if I was working extra hours.
No one cared if I was sick, exhausted, or barely keeping myself from falling apart.
The system didn't want explanations.
It wanted compliance.
One worker changed. Then another.
Every new face meant starting over—retelling my trauma, reopening wounds that never had a chance to heal, trying to prove to a stranger that I was a mother worth fighting for.
One worker told me I was "doing great."
The next said I was "behind."
One praised my progress.
The next acted like I hadn't done a thing.
It was like being graded by people using different tests.
And each one held pieces of my daughters' future in their hands.
Some days I'd show up to an appointment only to be told it was "rescheduled."
No call.
No message.
Just a shrug.
But if I rescheduled?
It went in the file.
The file—the thing everyone talked about instead of talking to me.
"The file says…"
"In her file…"
"We reviewed her file…"
Sometimes I wondered if they even remembered my name, or if I was just Case Number: Mother Who Struggled.
They watched me like they were waiting for me to fail.
Like they had already written the ending and were just letting me waste time trying to rewrite it.
And the hardest part?
The visits.
There were weeks when they cut my time short "due to staffing issues."
Other times they canceled altogether.
But nobody explained that to my girls.
Nobody sat with them and said, "Your mom wanted to be here. It wasn't her choice."
No.
Kids blame the person not in the room.
One visit, they were late bringing the girls.
So late that I sat there staring at the clock, wondering if they were even coming.
By the time they walked in, my youngest was crying.
"She said you forgot us," she sobbed into my shirt. "She said you didn't show up."
My heart cracked clean down the middle.
Because I had shown up.
I was there early.
I was sitting in that ugly blue chair praying they'd walk through that door.
But they told my babies a lie before they ever told me the truth.
After that visit, I marched straight to the worker and said, "Don't you ever tell my girls I didn't come."
She blinked like she hadn't expected me to stand up for myself.
"We… miscommunicated," she said quickly. "It happens."
But in this system, a miscommunication isn't just a mistake.
It's a weapon.
A subtle way to chip away at the bond between a mother and her children.
A slow erosion of trust.
A quiet whisper planted in little hearts: Maybe Mama won't show up.
That night I cried so hard my chest hurt.
Not because I was weak.
But because I realized something people don't warn you about:
The system doesn't just test you.
It tests your children.
It twists their perception, shapes their fears, feeds their confusion.
And every time they doubt me—even for a second—it feels like losing them all over again.
Still…
I kept pushing.
I kept showing up.
I kept dragging myself to every class, every meeting, every test, every room where my love for my daughters had to be proved over and over again.
Because even when the system made it harder, even when it felt impossible, even when it seemed like they were stacking the deck against me…
I refused to let them write my ending.
Not when my girls were waiting for me.
Not when their voices still lived in my heart.
Not when every piece of me was built from the kind of love a system can challenge—but never erase.