He Was the Only Constant

The knock at the door broke the calmness of bedtime. Mom opened it, and we saw the officers and my caseworker staring at us. My heart dropped. Once again, the officer handed me that black bag that said, “You’re garbage. You don’t matter.” The officer told my mom to get my brother ready, too. We had only a few minutes to say goodbye. Mom asked if we could put our stuff in a duffel bag that we had instead. He said, “Yes,” so I handed back the trash bag. 

My caseworker said we were going to stay with some friends. “Yeah right,” I thought. It would just be another foster home with parents who think they are rescuing a child. I was scared, mostly angry, but I knew the drill. Pack a few outfits, some pictures, a sketchbook and a Bible. Go to the foster home. Get settled. Prepare to be moved at any time. 

The only good thing about being taken was the relief I felt when they took me and my brother to the same home. But that relief was short-lived when they separated us the next day. Of course, I was used to being separated from him. It was lonely, and I wondered if our new foster parents told the caseworker they didn’t want me. Not knowing if I was wanted was the worst.

This time I promised myself I wouldn’t cry or be afraid. I decided I would never again go with them without kicking and screaming. I told myself I would be tougher next time and lectured myself for being too weak this time. I was filled with resentment toward my foster parents. I wasn’t theirs. They were a part of the problem. They enabled the state to take me away. If there were no foster parents, I would have stayed with my mom. 

Everything they did I resented. When they fed me, it was just out of obligation. When they tucked me in at night, they were secretly thinking about how dumb and pathetic I was that I still needed to be tucked. The bed they gave me out of pity. The food they fed me: I’d rather starve. I didn’t want the toys. I wanted my brother. I was angry and wanted nothing from any of them: not my foster parents, not my mother and certainly not the state. I wanted someone to blame, but who? I blamed them all.

I couldn’t stop thinking about my little brother. Alone in a new place. He didn’t adjust well to major changes, and they took me away from him. If no one cared about me, did they care about him? Who would protect him? Who would take care of him? No one was there to tell him everything would be okay. Getting to my baby brother was all I could think about. Protecting him and taking him home was the most important thing on my mind. I missed him and desperately wanted to know that he was happy and okay. 

Finally, the day came to see my brother. When I saw him, I felt like I was on cloud nine. Like always, he was holding a cassette player and manually rewinding a cassette tape. My heart leaped, and for the first time all week I was reminded that someone cares. I didn’t always get to see my mom in the system, but they let me see my brother a couple times a month. Knowing that I had my brother to take care of kept me going and made me feel like I had a purpose. To protect him. My brother was the only one who understood. He was the only constant.