It happened years ago, but it is something that is permanently seared into my brain. I had lost everything. It all started on August 29, 2012. I was in my first foster home.  I lived right outside my hometown, the small town of Salem, Missouri. I had to go to my first Family Support Team meeting in the Department of Family Services office. I remember walking in, the blue cloth chairs you would assume they would be comfortable…but they weren’t. They had been worn down by years of use. A couple of them had been duct taped from those many years of use.  I sat down and waited. The blue duct tape was coming off at the edges. As I waited I picked at it. “Savanna, you need to stop picking at the duct tape,” I said to myself. “But it’s already coming lose,” I argued with myself.  The duct tape was begging to be released from the chairs grasp. I stopped picking at the duct tape for it was making my hands sticky. So I grabbed my book. I was reading The Hunger Games for the 24th time. But I couldn’t sit still long enough to read one paragraph let alone to sit in an office. So I got up and paced, back and forth, back and forth.
I had no idea what was going to happen, but I knew something was not right. In a place like that, they can sweep and mop the floors until they are spotless, but still you could sense the heartbreak…the smell of your ex-boyfriend’s cologne…the one you yearned for in the dead of night and the loneliness. You remember when you would go outside for recess and you would be only one who wanted to go and play on the teeter-totter, everyone else wanted to go to the swing set. So you went off to play by yourself and after a little while you came back to your friends at the swing set because you didn’t want to be left alone. That’s how I felt but I couldn’t go back to my family. The devastation, and lost hope that came in those windowed but still utterly dark doors and never left. Most people avoided the Department of Family Services office and for good reason. 
The next thing I remember is my mom showing up.  Her makeup was done…overly done. Her foundation too dark, her lipstick smeared. For once I didn’t feel like I had to compete. She was trying too hard to impress me? My caseworker? Someone.  I immediately got hopeful. Back then I still believed in my mom. So of course I asked myself, “Was I finally going home?” I was not brave enough to ask out loud. Now when I look back I really wish I had. Next, my caseworkers from Pathways, Carre, glowing with her the pregnancy of her third child, and Dent County Disability Board, Amanda, showed up. I immediately knew something was wrong. They had only showed up together twice and each time bringing extremely bad news with the hint of broken promises. Each time they brought bad news it burnt my world. My life was turned into ashes…hot, and still smoldering. The memories of those bad news I avoided like they were the rattle snakes living in our yard. I know it may seem silly to think that they are coming to bring bad news, but to me it wasn’t. It was simply a way of life.
So my caseworker from Department of Family Services, Anna, came to the edge of the conference door and said “We are ready for you now Savanna.” I walked in with my mom, Carre, and Amanda following me. So for the next few minutes we talked about my placement, and how I was fitting in. As my foster mom replied, I thought to myself “I was doing ok, I wasn’t doing wonderful. What “normal” kid would, in a new home and bed? Everything was different. All new ways of living. But the best thing was I wasn’t being yelled at 24/7/365. Living in that foster home was blissful, I was sort of accepted but at the same time it was torture. Adjusting to change wasn’t exactly my strong suit”
I don’t remember what my foster mom said, I wasn’t really paying attention to her or anyone other than my mom. It was probably around the lines of what I was thinking. I was then asked to go outside to the lobby. When all this was going on my heart was racing…like I-had-just-ran-the mile-racing….but when I heard those words my heart had a heart attack. My natural personality is to be complying so I could object so of course I went willingly. A few minutes later, my mom came out and sat down across from me, and smiled. A smile that could have said anything to the person who saw it. But to me it was a smile of “goodbye…I will never see you again. I am giving up on you just like everyone else has.”
My caseworker than came out to get me. She noticed my mom was still sitting in the lobby. She glanced at her for about 5 seconds and then she turned her full attention on me. But that glance I will never forget. It was a look of pure hatred…of disgust….like my mom was a pile of throw up that you avoided at all cost. The reason this look was given I could not even imagine…at the time. So I went in the conference room yet again. Carre and Amanda asked me to sit between them. Which was something they had never asked before. And it was a good thing they did. I remember hearing these words, spoken softly but to me each word was a sonic boom, “Savanna, your mom has given up her parental rights.”  I said nothing. “Do you understand what that means?” Every word caused a chink in my fragile spirit until it finally exploded.   I wasn’t paying attention to that voice anymore; I was staring into Carre eyes. “I don’t know why,” Carre responded to my unspoken question. I then collapsed onto Carre.  The liquid sadness flowed down my rosy cheeks, leaving a wet, black trace of makeup. I gently wiped away the makeup…but it was pointless for my body shook and convulsed as if I no longer had control of it. As I struggled to breathe with each hopeless gasp of air I took, only to free it again in another forceful sob. My tears never stopped…I know there was more to this meeting but honestly I didn’t care! I had just lost everything and it wasn’t worth fighting. I remember Carre rubbing my back trying to soothe me…she was cooing to me “it will be alright…you are ok…you are safe…it’s going to be ok.” over and over again. When Carre finally got me to the point where I could talk, I asked two questions, “Do I get to say goodbye?” “Does she love me?”  Both were answered no. The first question out loud. The second question by no one speaking then and the years since have provide that answer. The echo of that “silent no” never leaves. It is always there.
When I finally walked out of the conference room my mom was gone. She had left the building. She had left me. She was gone. And I had no idea where my life was going to take me now.