Her name was Destiny. She was three days old and already in the foster system, walking the same bleak path I had lived. A baby shouldn’t have a caseworker before she has memories. A baby shouldn’t be assigned a file number like it’s a personality.
I called every day.
I begged for information.
Who had her? Was she safe? Was she eating? Was she warm?
No one would tell me.
I was just a convict.
My parental rights were “under review.”
Under review. Like love could be audited.
Two weeks after losing Ellie, they told me I had a visitor.
I expected my attorney. Maybe a chaplain. Some official figure with a folder who would tell me what else I was losing.
Instead, I walked into the visitation area and stopped so abruptly the guard behind me said, “Keep moving.”
On the other side of the glass sat an older white man with a long gray beard. A leather vest covered in patches. Hands like tree bark.
And in his arms—wrapped in a pink blanket—was my daughter.
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