The sadness hits first, fast and overwhelming. My chest tightens, my lungs forget how to work, and suddenly I’m gasping for air, drowning in a grief that has no bottom. The tears come whether I want them to or not—big, messy, unstoppable. The kind of crying that leaves your face wet, your nose running, your whole body shaking. It’s not delicate. It’s not quiet. It’s the kind of crying that comes from a place deeper than words.
Then the anger arrives, hot and blinding. Angry that I’m crying like this. Angry at myself for ever letting them go. Angry at my aunt. Angry at everyone who played a part in this nightmare. And then, just as quickly, the guilt crashes in—guilt for being angry, guilt for feeling anything other than love. It’s a cycle that drains me until I’m empty, until I have no choice but to put everything away again. Every time I try to organize the pieces of this case, I lose another piece of myself.
This fight has changed me in ways I never expected. I used to believe I was a good mom—one of the good ones, the kind who showed up, who loved hard, who tried her best. But now I find myself questioning everything. Questioning my worth. Questioning my instincts. Questioning whether I’m any different from the mothers I once judged without understanding their stories. My mind never stops. It races day and night, replaying every decision, every moment, every “what if” until I can’t tell where the truth ends and the fear begins.
The stress, the isolation, the trauma of being separated from the two people who have always been my heart—it’s taken a toll on me. I’ve been given diagnoses that reflect the weight of what I’ve carried alone, labels that try to capture the impact of this pain. But no label could ever fully explain what it feels like to be torn from the very souls who made me feel whole.
And yet, even in the chaos of my mind, there is one thing that never fades: my girls. Their faces are etched into me like sacred carvings. I can still see them running toward me, arms wide, yelling “Mommy! Mommy!” with those bright smiles that could light up any darkness. I remember the warmth of their hugs, the softness of their kisses, the sweet smell of their freshly washed hair. I can still hear their laughter—pure, unfiltered joy—and their little voices calling for me like I was their whole world.
Those memories are both my comfort and my torment. They keep me going, but they also remind me of everything I’m missing. Everything that was taken. Everything I’m fighting to get back.
I am alone in this fight, but I am not hollow. I am bruised, but I am not broken. Every tear, every breathless moment, every sleepless night is proof of how deeply I love them. Proof that even in the loneliness, even in the fear, even in the exhaustion, I am still their mother. And I will keep fighting, piece by piece, fragment by fragment, until the day I can hold them again.
