After an exhilarating experience at family fun night, I lay in bed to reflect on the day. My cousins and I have always been close, and spending time with them is a highlight of my seventeen-year-old life. In six months, I will begin a journey of my own choice that includes attending college, making friends, and leaving home. Leaving my family will be difficult, but I know that family never ends. This will not be the first time I experience a separation from family.  As I think about these thoughts, my mind trails off into a series of thoughts and travels to a distinct day in which I experienced a different kind of loss than my eleven-year-old self ever had before.

I am laying on the cat hair-covered futon in our cramped living room reading a book. Surrounding me is a sea of tattered clothes, musty dust, gritty dirt, stale food crumbs, broken toys, crumpled papers, and all other contents of our home emanating a stale scent of a full garbage can. The futon rests under a window allowing enough light to shine through for me to read without turning on the lamp. The beam of light shines delightfully, catching every speck of dust that floats through the air. A basket of laundry rests on the other half of the futon inhibiting my ability to lie down completely. Instead, I rest my feet on the beautifully carved, wooden coffee table that lies out in front of me. Cluttered with cigarette ashes, coffee stains, crusted food, filthy dishes, and so much more, my feet have to rest on the edge of the table. This table has been in my family for longer than I have been alive, and if my grandma witnessed it’s poor condition, she would be upset. All is quiet in the apartment with the exception of the whir of the refrigerator. Left to only my book and imagination, a blanket of relaxation and comfort spreads across the apartment.

I am midsentence in my book when suddenly an authoritative knock on our apartment door echoes through the room; it is the kind of knock my mom warns me to ignore, and if I answer it, bad people will take me away. Looking through the peephole, I am greeted by the gaze of our social worker, Sue. She is one of the bad people my mom has warned me of. Ducking away from the door, I attempt to make it seem like there is no one home. For the second time, a knock disrupts the peace of the apartment.

“Abby? Are you in there? I hear your little footsteps. Please, open the door. I’d like to talk to you,” Sue begs.
I begin thinking about my options. Open the door against Mom’s wishes. Mom’s not here anyways. She does not have to know. I can climb out the window and leave. We’re on the second floor, but I am certain I could climb down the side using other windows and objects. I can also lock myself in my mom’s room and pretend like I am not here. Then, I remember that I am not allowed in Mom’s personal space because she has bad stuff in there that the bad people are not allowed to see.

Worrying winds up winning this battle. What if Mom was in a car accident? What if Andy killed himself, like he always threatened? What if Nick was kidnapped? I decide to open the door.  Mom may be angry, but it will get Sue to go away and possibly put an end to my worries. I put a blanket over Mom’s plant, lock Mom’s room, and close it, so nobody can get inside. Maybe, Mom will be happy since I protected her stuff.

I tiptoe down the hallway avoiding the boxes, clothes, and toys that litter it. In attempt to avoid the closet door that is falling down, I dart to the side and land on a screw. The pain instantly shoots through my entire foot, and my blood immediately seeps into the cream-colored carpet. Mom is going to be angry with me, and she will probably make me scrub it out later. I put a shirt over the spot to cover it and continue towards the door. A ten-foot hallway has never seemed so long. Endless possibilities of bad occurrences run through my mind as I trek down this path stretched before me.

Reaching the cheaply made, wooden door, I undo the three locks while preparing myself for Sue’s presence, and I slowly pull it open. The door creaks as I open it. My trepidation is controlling me now as I gaze up and into the eyes of the enemy of our household.  Sue immediately pulls me into a hug as if happy that I am alive and well.

“Can I come in, sweetie?” Sue asks delicately.

“I don’t know… There’s no one else home. I’m not allowed to let others into the house until my mom gets home,” I blatantly utter trying not to show my fear.

“Nobody’s home? So you’re here all by yourself? You’re too young to be left alone! Andy’s not here either?” she barrages me with questions.

I am eleven, certainly old enough to be on my own. If Andy, my sixteen-year-old brother, were here, there would be no difference because he does not care about me enough to take care of me. I am better on my own.
“My mom just went to the food shelf. She should be back soon,” I lie.

The truth is, I do not actually know where my mom is. She left last night and has not been back since. She took Nick, my brother, and left with no words spoken. I cried and cried and cried foolishly wishing that they would not leave, but I learned long ago that my weeping does not stop her from leaving me. Sadness does not solve problems. Just as Mom had, Andy saw my tears, told me to suck it up, and went to his friend’s house.
Sue and I uncomfortably wait at the table for my mom’s arrival. She attempts to make small talk, but I shut down. I am nothing. After an hour of agonizing wait, my mom bursts into the apartment, kicking aside some clothes to open the door all the way. Instant confusion spreads across her face as soon as she sees Sue. The tension is so thick in the room—nearly tangible. Nick, being two years old, is oblivious to the current situation and begins playing with a toy that he found among a pile of garbage.

“Diane, did you forget we had a visit today?” Sue questions as she glances disapprovingly at Mom.
Sue is completely opposite of my mom. She’s tall, slim, and well dressed with good posture and silky hair. My mom is short and as round as a plump tomato; she has snarly brown hair and dresses like a homeless person.  Mom shrugs and glances at her feet, but she has never been one for words. She sways nervously from one foot to the other. Sue stands up and starts to walk towards my mom.

Gesturing towards Nick’s room, Sue instructed, “Abby, why don’t you and Nick go play in the other room?”
I utter an agreement and pick up Nick, carrying him towards the bedroom. I set him on the mattress that lies on the floor and give him a toy to play with. He is happily satisfied and giggles a little as the toy lion stares him in the eyes. Taking advantage of his content state, I lean into the hallway to eavesdrop.

“—the state of this apartment. I am concerned with the health and goodwill of your children. There is mold on the dishes. Ashes litter the table. A knife is in the reach of your children. If Nick got ahold of that, it could be dangerous. You are unfit to be a parent. We have given you countless opportunities to prove that you can take care of your children, but you have failed. Today was your last chance. I’m so sorry, but we are legally obligated to remove your children from this home. There is a police officer on his way now,” Sue states.

My mom’s response is vulgar and as far from professional as one can get. Uttering several swear words, she breaks down and cries. I hear footsteps across the floor and hide behind the fallen closet door. Curiosity causes me to creep out from my hiding place. Mom sits on the couch crying. I do not understand what Sue meant when she spoke to my mom, but it made Mom upset. Sue uncomfortably stands in the center of the room. For the third time that day, a knock on the door demands the attention of everyone. Sue opens the door, and I see a policeman.

Much like social workers, Mom warned me that the police are bad people who make life hard for people. Dressed in head to toe in a washed out brown, everything from his posture to his badge screamed authority. I try to hide behind the broken couch that is between the policeman and me. My eyes are automatically drawn to the menacing gun that rests in a holster at his side. My imaginative mind flashes to one of my older brother’s video games where police freely kill people. I hear the man’s lulling voice and am drawn back to reality, forcing myself to believe that not all cops are bad. As I come back to full awareness, I catch onto their conversation.

“It’d be best if they got a bag or two together of things. Their chances of coming back soon are slim,” the cop states.
“Yes, yes of course. I’ll let the little one know. She can do it. She’s in a better state than her mom, anyways,” Sue says with a saccharine tone.
“YOU’RE NOT TAKING MY KIDS AWAY!” Mom erupts, throwing a glass that shatters into shards all against the wall.

I flinch and chaos ensues. The police officer immediately moves to my mom. Sue directs me into the hallway attempting to protect me. Shouts bounced off the walls and echoed down the hall. Above all the madness, my mind is tuned into a single cry. I instinctively move into Nick’s bedroom to see what is wrong.

In the corner of the room, Nick sits crying while holding the lion toy that bears a new hole in it’s side. Beads drop out one by one onto the fake wooden floors. My attempt at trying to fix the lion backfires as thousands of tiny beads begin their despairing descent to the ground. All seems silent, as if the household is in a time vortex, until the first bead hits the floor, and the chaotic state of the household reigns on. A man shouts. A woman cries. A phone rings. A chair falls. A baby cries.

Remembering what I had heard the policeman and Sue speaking about, I quickly gather a bag for Nick and myself. I take a single pillowcase and stuff it with onesies, diapers, my blankie, and some outfits for me. Lastly, I stick my two most valued possessions into my pocket: my dad’s urn and the lion toy—my lion toy. I scoop my baby brother up, and for the first time since the policeman arrived, Nick is silent.

Nick in one arm and pillowcase in the other, I venture carefully to the living room. I catch a glimpse of my mom being shoved out the door while she wails and flails. I walk to Sue and she explains in simple terms that Nick and I are going to spend the night at a nice family’s house for the next few days. I realized how scared I was but knew I had to stay strong. Nick needed me. Without further explanation, I exit the apartment and leave the building completely, Sue by my side, Nick in my arms, and pillowcase trailing behind. I take one last look at the place I called home without realizing just how much life was about to change.

I transport myself back to the present and reflect on my experience. Six years have passed, and I think about that moment of my life frequently. Although I did not realize it then, I was going to foster care. My lack of awareness of my situation was due to my number one concern to keep Nick safe which maintains a position of priority—even if he is eight years old now. My family’s journey of chaos did not end there. Two years of court battles resulted in a torn apart family. Although a family was torn apart in this instant, I gained a value: family is important. A life without family is not a fulfilled life.

Family importance was not the only value learned. I learned unconditional help, respect, and change.

Strangers’ willingness to help people in need inspired me to return the favor. I gained a respect not only for authority figures but strangers who accepted me into their home without knowing what to expect. I have learned to deal with change and to accept anything that comes my way.  This experienced has shaped me to stay strong through even the worst of experiences which a value that will stick with me forever. The bed slowly envelops me in comfort, and I drift to sleep after my reflection of my past.