“I hate myself.” The words slipped out of my youngest child’s mouth with a casual levity. Only 5 years old, her voice still carries that bright, fluted tonality unique to young children. The first time she said it, she was sitting in a little pink play-chair set against the wall in her grandmother’s living room, where she’d been living with her sister.
“I’m ugly,” she added. “I’m dumb.”
These aren’t things that she or her 6-year-old sister have been told at home—at least not that I’ve heard. Since the moment she was born and placed on my breast, where she immediately latched on and nursed contentedly for almost an hour, she’s been showered with love and affection. Neither child has ever experienced anything resembling abuse or neglect.
But in early 2018, a little over a month after I hauled my family from our home in Seattle to my in-laws’ home in Broward County, Florida so their father could recuperate from mental illness, he and I were removed from the home—and our daughters from our custody—by child services.
This followed an argument I had with my in-laws, after which they made allegations of abandonment and drug use against me. The abandonment charges would eventually be dismissed, and the claims of drug use negated by slews of tests. But by that point, my daughters were already living with them, I was already homeless in a strange state without resources, and we were ordered to complete numerous requirements within 15 months. When their father and I did not complete those mandates in time and to the court’s satisfaction, our parental rights were permanently severed. Our daughters were adopted out to their paternal grandparents.