Silent Tears: A Child's Journey

Careless words. They can change the course of a life. As a 10-year-old boy, I would tell neighbors, family friends, and teachers stories about what was happening at home. With all the turmoil at home, I didn’t know how to handle my emotions. When I shared my stories with others it eased my anxiety. In a house filled with four siblings, I felt alone. I was always the one who was teased for being overly sensitive.

One day, in school I finally shared too much. My mom had been drinking too much the night before and taught me what I thought was a funny song. It was a rhyming song which made it memorable and fun to sing. In her slurred words and out-of-tune voice, she sang, “gin, gin, gin makes you want to sin, sin, sin.”

The next morning, I eagerly shared my newly learned song with my teacher, beaming with pride at the catchy tune and silly lyrics. But as I looked up at her face, I was taken aback by the shock and horror etched on it. Suddenly, what I had thought was a funny song changed the course of my life. My teacher grabbed my hand and led me down the hallways to the principal's office. My heart pounded as I sat on the hard, uncomfortable wooden chair, feeling small and vulnerable under the scrutinizing gaze of authority figures. The door swung open and two stern-looking women entered. A few tense moments passed before my mom rushed in, her face filled with anger. I couldn't understand what was happening, but I knew that if my mom was here, it couldn't be good.

I entered the principal’s office, the two stern-looking social workers sat on one side of the office while my mom sat on the other side. I couldn’t look at her. I knew I was in trouble, but still unsure what I had done wrong. My anxiety was back. My stomach churned in knots.

“Matthew, where did you learn that song?” the principal asked.

That was an easy enough question, I thought. “Last night, from my mom,” I responded.

One of the social workers began asking me questions about my home life. I answered truthfully because you’re always supposed to tell the truth. I didn’t understand that you shouldn’t tell someone everything you know.

I shared about her smoking through a special tube I’d found under the bathroom counter. I also recounted how my mom’s boyfriend would come to the house and my dad lived with his girlfriend, yet my parents were still married. It felt good to get the weight of the world off my chest. All the stories I had shared, my mom had told me while drinking. She regularly shared secrets that no child should ever hear from a parent. The principal then excused me from his office. I sat back down on the uncomfortable, wooden chair.

The principal’s door opened, and my mom walked out and looked at me with hurt and anger. I knew that look. I was going to be sent to my room and get beaten with my dad’s leather belt. I was surprised when the principal called me back into his office.

For the next hour, the social workers asked me more questions and one of them was if I felt safe at home. Again, my truthful self shared that I didn’t feel safe.

“Matthew,” the social worker said. “We think it’s a good idea for you to stay with a nice family for a while. It’s just temporary until we can get things sorted out with your parents.”

I sank into the vinyl backseat of the social worker's car, sticky from the late afternoon heat and smelling faintly of cigarettes. The window was only halfway rolled down, but it still let in warm gusts of wind that ruffled my hair. I peered out at the familiar streets of my town, watching them blur and fade as we drove further away.

The car jostled and squeaked over potholes and bumps on the country road. I tried to focus on the farms and pastures passing by, but my mind kept drifting back to my conversation with my mom. She had warned me about sharing our family's secrets with anyone.

As her words resounded in my mind, I felt like I was being suffocated. The memories of overhearing my mother's conversations with our family members came rushing back to me. She didn't want me anymore, and she was trying to get rid of me by asking my uncle or grandparents to take me in. My heart ached with conflicting emotions - anger towards my mother and hurt at the thought of being rejected by my own family.

I clenched my fists and took a deep breath, trying to push away the fear and anxiety that threatened to overwhelm me. This was no longer just a story – it was becoming my reality.

After what felt like hours of driving, we finally turned onto a gravel driveway. The noise of the stones hitting the car was loud and jarring. Ahead, a white farmhouse with a large porch emerged. Surrounding it were barren corn and wheat fields, making the house seem isolated. Standing on the porch was a woman in a blue polka-dot dress, waving to us.

Oh no, here it comes, I thought as my stomach pains returned with force. My mom had warned me that foster parents were usually mean and only wanted to take in kids for money.  

I kept my head down as we walked up the front path. When I looked up, I saw three kids standing next to the woman.

"Hello, Matthew," the woman greeted me with a warm smile. "My name is Miss Elizabeth and we are excited to have you stay at our home." She introduced the kids, “This is Susie, Joey and Pete.” Susie had a wide, cheerful smile on her face. Joey stood on the steps, eyes lowered to the ground. His expression was one of sadness. Pete stepped down, smiled, and gave me a fist bump.

Just then, a dirty white truck pulled into the driveway. As the truck approached us, I couldn't help but look down at the ground, unsure of how to feel. A large man with dirty overalls and boots hopped out of the truck.

I felt uneasy about meeting the man because my father had never wanted to spend time with me. Whenever he did, he would criticize me for being too emotional and sensitive. The man walked right up to me, crouched down, and extended his hand.

"Hey buddy, it's great to have you here!" he exclaimed with genuine enthusiasm. "My name is Mr. Doug."

 “Well,” the social worker interrupted. “I think we should go and let you all get to know one another.” She smiled at me and touched my arm. I relaxed a little bit and smiled back.

“Okay, kids, let’s get ready for dinner,” Miss Elizabeth said.

The children eagerly climbed up the porch steps, swung open the wooden screen door, and ran inside to the kitchen.

“Come on buddy,” Mr. Doug told me, “Let’s go and get the meat to put on the grill,” he said enthusiastically. I looked at Miss Elizabeth and Mr. Doug smiled half-heartedly and followed him.

As Mr. Doug began grilling the hamburgers and hot dogs, Miss Elizabeth had prepared corn on the cob and a fresh tomato pie. Pete and Susie were busy setting the table while Joey sat in a chair in the corner of the screened-in porch.

“He’s a mopey pants sometimes,” Susie said. I gave a weak smile as she continued to set the cups on the table.  I walked over to Joey and sat down in the cushioned chair next to him.

“Hey,” I said. That was the first time I had spoken since arriving at the house. He looked at me, sizing me up.

“Hey,” he replied. “So,” he hesitated, “why are you here?”

I was surprised by his question and didn’t know how to answer him. I softly replied, “My parents didn’t want me anymore.”

Miss Elizabeth overheard our conversation. She winced. Just then Mr. Doug came into the screened-in porch with a platter of sizzling hamburgers and charred hot dogs.

“Who’s hungry?” he asked cheerfully. With that, he set the platter on the table, and everyone darted for their chairs. I wasn’t sure what to do so I waited until everyone sat down so that I didn’t sit in the wrong seat, taking my place next to Pete and Mr. Doug. Next, he said a prayer of thanks for the meal, and then we passed dishes around the table. I was astonished that the kids were freely talking to each other.

At home, whenever we had dinner together, my brothers would always bicker over who got to sit in the coveted window seat. It was a never-ending feud, as they would shove and argue until my mom intervened with a slap to their heads, forcing them to take their seats.

Miss Elizabeth interrupted my thoughts as she asked the kids to tell me something about themselves.

Susie’s hand shot up immediately. “Me, me, me first please!” She hollered so loud I imagined the squirrels outside could hear her.

She proudly stated she was six years old, her teacher was Mrs. Mackey, and that her favorite subjects were math and science. She loved to dance and had two favorite stuffed puppies, Chip and Buster. She couldn’t sleep without them.  

“Okay, that’s wonderful Susie,” Miss Elizabeth interrupted her. If she hadn’t, Susie would’ve kept on talking for at least an hour.

“What about you Joey? What do you want to share?” she asked.

He didn’t look up from his plate as he began talking. He was in the second grade, and he liked baseball and soccer. When he did look up, he looked directly in my eye and said, “And my name is Joey. Not Joe or Joseph. If you call me anything except Joey you’ll be sorry.”

Mr. Doug gave him a stern look and told him that was unacceptable behavior. Not knowing how to respond I just listened. I had learned in situations like this, the safest thing to do is to not react. I’d learned the hard way too many times from arguments with my mom and brothers.

Everyone at the table was silent. It was an awkward silence. “How about you, Pete?” Mr. Doug asked. Why don’t you tell Matthew a little bit about yourself? You are after all the same age and will probably be in the same class at school.

School?! I hadn’t even thought about going to a new school. I was having a difficult enough time moving in with a new family somewhere out in the country with only a few houses in sight. My stomach began hurting again, thinking about even more new people to meet.

Mr. Doug saw me tense up and said to Pete, “Hey buddy, forget about school. Just tell him about you.”

Pete started, “Well, I think it’s cool that you’re here. I’ve always wanted a brother who was the same age as me. I like all sports, but especially football. I like helping Dad on the farm but don’t get to do much right now. I have gotten to ride in the combine while he drives through the fields harvesting the corn.”

Later, after the meal was done, while Mr. Doug and the kids were clearing the table and doing dishes, Miss Elizabeth took me upstairs. She opened a bedroom door. The room had two beds - a bunk bed with a superhero comforter and a single bed covered with a blue and white blanket.

“I know this is a lot to take in Matthew,” she began. “I can only imagine how you’re feeling. I want you to know that we are all very glad to have you here with us. I know it can be scary, but I promise you, you’re safe here.

“This will be your bed and as you can see, you’ll be sharing it with Pete and Joey. Each of you has your dresser,” she said.

Suddenly I realized I didn’t have any clothes with me. When I left the school with the social workers, they didn’t tell me I needed to bring clothes.

Miss Elizabeth, opened the drawers and showed me my clothes. She smiled and said that they had extra clothes from friends and whatever didn’t fit, we’d go to the local thrift store tomorrow and get more clothes.

Just then Pete and Joey bounded into the room to get ready for bed. Joey came over to my bed and apologized for what he said at dinner. I’d later find out that he was named after his dad and because of the physical abuse he related that name to the abuse.

“Hey bro,” Pete said, “We’re gonna change into our PJs and then have some ice cream and watch movies. We always do movie night on Fridays, right Mom?” It was then that I realized that Pete had referred to Mr. Doug as dad and now Miss Elizabeth as mom.

She noticed the confused look I had and while the boys took turns changing their clothes in the bathroom, she shared that Pete was their biological child. Mr. Doug stood in the doorway listening as she said that they knew so many children needed a family, so they decided to become a foster family.

Mr. Doug smiled, and said, “Okay buddy, your turn in the bathroom.” I took the blue-striped pajamas with me into the bathroom, changed, and headed downstairs. I plopped down on the oversized sofa and grabbed a pillow to hug. It felt awkward wearing pajamas in someone’s house that I didn’t know.

“Here,” Susie, said as she handed me one of her stuffed puppies. “This is Dakota, you can hold onto her if you want. She always makes me feel safe.”

I smiled and took the puppy and held onto it. Susie moved over on the couch, pulled up a huge pillow, and kind of snuggled against me. Maybe life would be better for me here, I thought. I decided to enjoy the moment as I relaxed for the first time in a very long time. Maybe somebody finally wanted me after all.