Can't Go Home Again

I was seven when the people in suits came to take me away. I remember thinking how rich they must be since Mama had always told me that people wearing suits were rich. I don’t think I understood what was happening at first. Mama was crying, but the suit people were so kind that I figured there couldn’t be anything really wrong. Mama was just having another one of her crying days. She had them every so often - days when she couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t take me to school, or make me dinner. On the really bad crying days, she would sometimes scream and yell and throw things, just like she was doing now. But the suit people stayed calm, so I figured that they understood, just like I did. This wouldn’t last. Mama would go to sleep, and when she woke up, she would smile again and hug me.

           But then they took me away from her. They told me it was to keep me safe. But I thought I was safe with Mama. Why wouldn’t I be? All I knew was they wouldn’t let me go home. For a long time, I moved from house to house, from family to family. I never stayed for more than a few months. Most of them were nice. Some of them weren’t. But none of them were home. I did get to see Mama every now and then.

           I think the first thirty times or more that I saw her went exactly the same way. I would run into her arms and press myself to her. When I finally pulled away, she would touch my cheek, stroke my hair, and kiss my forehead. And then I would beg her to bring me home. “I can’t, baby,” was her answer every time. And each time those words left her mouth, I think it broke her heart just a little bit more. But she would hold me close and tell me that I had to be a good girl and work hard in school.

           With my child’s logic, I decided that Mama was telling me that those were the keys to going home: being a good girl and working hard in school. So that’s exactly what I did. No matter who my foster parents were, I was as quiet and obedient as you could possibly want me to be. I never argued. I never complained. I always did my chores, always went to bed when I was supposed to, always cleaned my plate.

           In school, I was a top student. It took me a year or so to catch up after so many missed school days early on, but once I did, I worked my way right to the top. I never missed a day of school, did every assignment, studied constantly. Even the occasional change of schools that sometimes happened when I switched foster families hardly slowed me down.

           Each time I saw Mama, I reported all of my successes to her. I described in great detail what a good girl I had been and how high my grades were. Each time, she smiled widely at me and told me she was proud of me. But when I asked her to take me home with her, the sadness returned to her eyes, and still she would say, “I can’t, baby.”

           It took me more time than I care to admit to realize that the fault wasn’t mine. It took years of work, years of being a model student and foster daughter, before I finally demanded of Mama, “Why not? Why can’t you take me home? I’ve done everything you wanted me to! I’ve been a good girl. I get straight A’s in school! Isn’t that enough?”

           She burst into tears, and it surprised me so much that I stepped away from her. Seeing Mama cry, that wasn’t so surprising. Though her crying days didn’t usually coincide with my visit days, I had seen enough of them that I knew what they were like. But this was different. This wasn’t incoherent babbling. This wasn’t Mama locking herself up in her room, hiding from the world. This wasn’t yelling and screaming or uncontrollable sobbing. This was nothing but pure sorrow. It was an emotion I don’t think I had ever seen in her before that moment.

           “Baby,” she said softly. “You are enough. Of course you are! You are my baby girl! You can get straight A’s or fail every class, and I will still be proud of you. You can be the most obedient child or the most rebellious, and I will still love you. If I could take you home with me today, I would. But I can’t, baby.”

           I wrapped my arms around her waist and cried into her blouse. “Why not, Mama?”

           She sat down in a nearby chair and pulled me into her lap. She laid my head down on her shoulder and stroked my hair. “Baby, I love you more than life itself, but I can’t give you a good home. I want you to have a home with good people who can take good care of you and give you everything that you need.”

           “But Mama, I don’t want other people, I want you!” I weep into her shoulder.

           “I know, baby. I wish it could be different; I really do. But I want you to have a good life more than anything else.”

           It took me a long time to realize just how hard that was for her. As a kid, I didn’t understand what she was sacrificing. All I knew was that I couldn’t be with her, and I almost hated her for that. But she was my Mama, and I could never really hate her.

           I never stopped doing what she asked, though. From foster home to foster home and from school to school, I was everything she wanted me to be. I was polite, respectful, hardworking, and determined, and all of that got me so much further than I ever could have imagined. I applied for scholarships and managed to get a full ride to college. All that hard work was worth it when I saw the pride on Mama’s face when I told her.

           So now, here I am – one final away from finishing my first semester. I should be proud of myself. I should be reveling in my ability to overcome past hardships. I should be thrilled at being that much closer to true success. I should feel blessed to be here.

           Yet, as I look around at my fellow students and listen to their excited conversations about going home and spending the holidays with their families, there is only one thought in my head - I can’t go home. I don’t have one to go home to.