This morning I’ll be heading to court to sit in the back of a room where decisions are made about a little boy who was up in my arms all night.
They’ll call him the child.
They’ll flip through case files and speak in legal terms.
They’ll talk about visits and timelines and “next steps.”
But they won’t talk about how he screamed in his sleep.
How he clung to me like his life depended on it.
How he finally exhaled when he was curled up on my chest at 3 a.m.
They’ll say his name like it’s a task.
But to me, he’s not a task.
He’s a boy.
And still, I’ll sit there voiceless.
The one who holds him through the trauma.
The one who cancels life to keep up with appointments.
The one who speaks gently when his body remembers what it shouldn’t.
The one who has shown up, day and night, over and over again.
But in court? I’m not the mother.
I’m the “foster placement.”
A background character in the story I live out every single day.
It’s a gut-wrenching kind of love.
A love that keeps giving even when the world refuses to see it.
But I’ll keep showing up.
Because he’s worth it.
Because he deserves someone who sees him not as a case, but as a child.
Not as a burden, but as a boy who’s learning how to feel safe again.
They may not hear my voice today.
But he will.
And that’s what matters.
Credit goes to Respect Owners