Everything happened so quickly. I was laughing, talking trash and schooling kids on the basketball court in the gymnasium of my after-school program one evening when I was suddenly asked to leave the court and follow an administrator to a conference room. I was 12 years old.
As we walked down the hallway, I couldn’t help wondering if I was in trouble, since that was the norm. Instead, I found myself walking into a situation that forever changed my life. I was met by my social worker, who was standing in the room along with my two of my siblings. She shared with us that we were not going to be returning home to our mother, with whom we had been living for the past two years.
No explanations or goodbyes; instead, we gathered our book bags and were driven to the Department of Social Services, where our belongings, packed in duffle bags, were sitting in the middle of the floor, ready for us to leave a situation that was all too familiar. This wasn’t my first time being abruptly yanked out of my living situation, and it wouldn’t be the last.
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