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A Hard Decision
I left my son with a family friend in 2007 when I was 20 years old and he was one and a half. I had run away from foster care and had nowhere to live and no money for food. I was also dealing with depression and trauma—and an abusive partner. I didn’t have support from my family and felt uncared for and alone.
The family friend lived in a cozy, nice home. She suggested that I leave my son with her and write a statement saying that he would live with her family temporarily, just until I got situated and had my own place.
I did not want to be without him, but I wasn’t able to provide a home or food. A ball formed in my throat and I wanted to break down and cry, but I agreed to it. If I had access to food, housing, mental health care and emotional support, I would not have made that decision. I didn’t know that my son would end up living there for 10 years.
Every day, I thought about my son and visited him. But I was constantly watched by the family friend, as if I were a bad mom. She did not want me to be alone with him or take him outside. We had to be in the living room where she could see us. It was a voluntary arrangement, but I felt like a prisoner, being told what to do and not do.
When he was three years old, I remember him being so happy to see me and giving me big hugs. He always wanted to play Trouble together and show me how he played Mario Kart. We had picture time and made silly faces. He liked to dance. Once, he was doing a scene from the movie “Rio,” and I was so happy, laughing and cheering him on.
Visiting him made my day—but when it was time to leave, I felt broken and cried hysterically.
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