The days after they took my girls blurred together in a way that didn't feel like living—it felt like drifting. I moved through the house like a stranger, stepping around toys I couldn't bear to pick up, brushing past memories that hit harder than any punch I'd ever taken.
Every morning, I woke up wondering why the house was so quiet, and then it would hit me all over again.
They weren't there.
They weren't coming out of their room.
They weren't asking for breakfast or arguing over the same pink cup.
My body knew before my mind caught up.
Grief has a way of waking up before you do.
Two days after the removal, I got the letter.
A thick envelope with my name typed neatly across the front—cold, official, unbothered by the weight of what was inside. It was a notice for the first court hearing. A date. A time. A place.
No guidance. No comfort. Not even a line saying, We know this is hard.
Just directions to the courtroom where I'd have to defend the one thing in the world I loved most.
I sat at the kitchen table turning that paper over and over, my fingerprints smudging the ink. I didn't understand half the words. Adjudication. Compliance. Placement recommendation. Case plan.
It felt like reading a language designed to make you feel small.
But the fear?
I understood that perfectly.
By the time the court day came, my stomach felt like it was full of glass. I wore the nicest clothes I had, even though they didn't make me feel any more put together. I kept telling myself: If I look strong, they'll believe I'm strong.
But the truth was, my hands never stopped shaking.
The courthouse smelled like old paper and lost hope. Parents were sitting on benches—some crying, some angry, some staring at the floor. It was the kind of place where people tried to pretend they weren't broken.
My social worker called my name.
She didn't say "hello" or "how are you holding up."
Just my name—flat and procedural, like she was checking off a box.
She walked me through what was going to happen inside the courtroom, speaking fast, using terms that felt like stones dropping at my feet.
"You'll hear the allegations. The judge will determine if the children remain in custody. The department will recommend a case plan."
"Will I see them?" I asked.
She hesitated.
That hesitation said everything.
"Not today."
I swallowed so hard it burned.
Walking into that courtroom felt like walking straight into a lion's mouth. Everyone looked like they already knew my story—like they had already decided who I was. Caseworkers shuffled through my life on paper like it was just another file in their stack. Lawyers spoke about me in the third person, as if I wasn't even in the room.
When the judge read the allegations, I wanted to stand up and scream that I wasn't a monster.
I wanted to tell them I loved my girls so much it hurt to breathe.
I wanted to beg them to see the mother behind the mistakes.
But courtrooms aren't built for mothers' hearts—they're built for paperwork.
The judge's final words hit like a hammer:
"The children shall remain in foster care pending further hearings."
It was so quiet afterward, I could hear my own heart breaking.
I walked out of the courthouse numb.
The sun was too bright.
The world too normal.
People were laughing somewhere down the street, living lives untouched by the ache swallowing me whole.
Back home, I opened the door and stood in the entrance like I was stepping into a crime scene. Because that's what it felt like—a place where something terrible had happened.
That night, I made a promise to myself.
A messy, desperate, trembling promise:
I don't care how long it takes. I don't care how hard the system tries to bury me. I will get my girls back.
Even if I had to rebuild myself from the ground up.
Even if I had to fight every day.
Because motherhood isn't something you can take from a heart like mine.
You can remove children from a home, but you can't remove a mother's fire.
And that was the night mine started to burn.