I can still hear her screaming.

Three and a half years later, in the quiet moments when my house is still and everyone’s asleep, I can hear that primal, desperate wail that tore through my chest and left a hole that’s never quite healed.

She was eighteen months old. Tiny fists clenched around my shirt, her whole body shaking with the force of her terror. “MAMA! MAMA!” she screamed, reaching for me as the social worker pried her from my arms.

I stood there in my driveway, frozen, my arms still curved in the shape of her little body. Empty. Helpless. Watching the car drive away with my screaming baby because “she has to go to the visit. It’s court ordered.”

Those words — court ordered — became the soundtrack to my personal hell.

If you’re a foster parent, you know this scene. You’ve lived it. You’ve felt your heart shatter into pieces while trying to keep a brave face. You’ve questioned everything — your calling, your sanity, your ability to keep doing this work that asks you to love with your whole heart while preparing to have it broken over and over again.

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