Trauma doesn't always scream.
Sometimes it whispers first.
A flinch.
A stare too long.
A question a child shouldn't know how to ask.
But with every passing week under the new worker, those whispers grew louder.
And suddenly they weren't whispers anymore—
they were warning bells.
The next visit, my girls came in looking like shadows of themselves.
My youngest walked stiffly, her head down, like she was trying to make herself smaller.
That bubbly spark she always had—gone.
Her eyes were tired in a way that didn't belong on a child's face.
My oldest didn't say a word.
Not even hello.
She climbed into the chair far away from me again, not by choice this time—but because she was conditioned to.
I felt my stomach twist.
I forced a smile anyway.
"Hey, babies…"
My youngest didn't answer.
She just crawled into my lap and hid her face, trembling.
Not crying—trembling.
Slow, tiny shivers that told me she was holding something in so big she didn't have the words.
I rubbed her back gently.
"What's wrong, sweetheart?"
Before she could answer, my oldest said quietly,
"We're not supposed to talk about it."
My heart dropped.
I looked at the new worker, Ms. Crowley, who was pretending to read over papers.
Her expression didn't move.
I turned back to my oldest.
"Baby… you can always talk to me."
She shook her head.
"No. They said we get in trouble."
Trouble.
For telling their mother how they felt.
My youngest's fingers tightened around my shirt.
She whispered, barely audible,
"I had another bad dream."
My heart clenched.
Nightmares had become more and more common since they were taken.
"What kind of dream, baby?"
She swallowed hard.
"That you didn't want us no more."
The room spun.
I looked at Ms. Crowley—she kept writing.
"Who told you that?" I asked, my voice shaking despite my best effort.
My youngest buried her face deeper.
"They said sometimes moms don't get better… and we have to get used to it."
My chest burned.
My vision stung.
"That is NOT true," I whispered fiercely.
"That is not EVER true."
She didn't answer.
Because she didn't believe me.
Someone else's voice was louder.
My oldest was next.
She finally slid her chair closer, but her movements were rigid—like she was scared someone would yell at her for crossing an invisible line.
She looked at me with a face too serious for her age.
"They said if we keep crying at visits, they might stop them."
I froze.
"What? Who said that?"
She shrugged, but her eyes darted toward the worker.
"They said crying makes it harder for them to help us."
Crying.
A child crying for her mother.
Being treated like misbehavior.
I took her hand.
"Baby, listen to me. Crying doesn't mean anything bad. Crying means you love me and you miss me, and that is NORMAL."
She didn't let go of my hand, but she didn't look convinced either.
That's how emotional damage works—it teaches doubt before it teaches fear.
Later in the visit, something happened that shattered me in a way I can't forget.
We were coloring when a toy fell off the table and made a loud noise.
Just a little clatter.
My youngest screamed.
Not a startled jump—
a full, terrified scream.
She covered her head with both hands and curled up on the floor, shaking like she was expecting to be hit.
"Mama, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
I dropped to my knees, heart splitting open.
"Baby, stop—stop—hey, hey, you're safe. You're safe with me."
But she kept saying sorry over and over, like those were the only words she had left.
My oldest froze beside me, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.
She whispered,
"She gets scared at night now. When someone yells in the house. Or if a door shuts too hard."
I felt sick.
Sick with anger.
Sick with helplessness.
Sick with the truth nobody seemed willing to admit:
My babies weren't being protected.
They were being broken.
And the system was watching it happen.
When the worker ended the visit early, my oldest tried to hide her tears.
My youngest cried out for me, her arms reaching, her legs dragging against the floor as the worker pulled her away.
"Mama, please don't let them take us!"
That sound—
that desperate, panicked scream—
ripped something open inside me that would never fully heal.
Even as the door closed, I heard my oldest whisper through her sobs:
"Please just get better, Mama. We need you."
And I realized in that moment:
They weren't just hurting.
They were blaming themselves.
They were carrying guilt that wasn't theirs to hold.
They were turning their trauma inward because no one around them knew how to actually care for them.
The emotional cracks weren't cracks anymore.
They were fractures.
Deep ones.
And if I didn't fight harder, they would become permanent.
This wasn't just about getting my kids back.
It was about saving them.
Before the system finished destroying them.
If you want Chapter 11, tell me which direction it takes:
✨ The system pushes for termination of rights
✨ You relapsing under the pressure
✨ You fighting back—complaints, lawyers, everything
✨ A court date that goes horribly wrong
✨ A moment that snaps you into warrior mode
Where did your story really goPoin?