Era 2
The Hollow Mirror
“I learned to smile with my mouth and hide with my eyes. I was there, but no one saw me.”
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Content Warning:
This entry discusses childhood trauma, family instability, DSS involvement, and the emotional experience of being removed from home. It includes themes of fear, separation, and distress during a crisis. Reader discretion is advised.
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The Day We Were Taken
Many things had been building up to that point. Up to that day, we were taken away from Anna.
Not because of me.
Not because of my siblings.
But because of her.
Choices...
Our lives were unstable long before that moment.
We moved constantly—never staying in one place for long.
I remember going to preschool, daycare, and what felt like more schools than I could count.
Every time I made a friend, I had to leave them behind.
Every time I started to feel like I belonged somewhere, we were gone again.
And I didn’t get a say.
There was a time when I was proud of getting a “D” at least not an “F” on an assignment because I knew I had tried. I didn’t always understand my homework and had no one to help me. So, I was proud of what I had and believe my parent would be too.
Then one day, I was carpooling for that day, and the librarian who helped direct the carpool area in front of the school told me, “That’s not really that good. I think you can do better.”
I was a bit confused about what he was saying, and my parents always told me good job or whatever. It made me question everything I had done to feel proud.
But instead of breaking me, it sparked something.
I wanted to be better.
I started aiming for A’s after that, but didn’t know how.
But I didn’t give up.
At home, though, nothing was improving.
DSS started coming around more—showing up at our schools, at the house.
But Anna would never let them talk to us alone.
She told us to lie.
She said if we told the truth, they would take us away.
She said we’d be separated.
And as kids, we believed her.
I lied for a long time.
I was scared.
But eventually, I got tired of lying.
Tired of pretending.
Tired of being afraid at home.
Then came the day we were called to the school counselor’s office.
My sister and I, Rose.
They separated us and started asking questions.
At first, I put up my walls.
I didn’t want to say anything. But then they told me, “Rose already told us the truth. We just need to hear it from you, too.”
I didn’t know they were saying the same thing to her. I didn’t know she was still holding the secret, afraid like I had been. I thought she had spoken up. So I broke.
I told them everything.
About what was happening at home.
About the fear.
About the lies.
I did it because I wanted to help. Truly.
I thought maybe if someone knew the truth, they could fix it.
They could save us—and maybe even save Anna too. She could get help!
I remember crying.
I remember being scared.
But I also remember a strange sense of relief… like the truth had finally come out.
Years later, I found out Rose hadn’t said anything. We talked it out as adults.
She had been told I already told the truth—just like I was told she had, but she never but that wall down like I did.
But the truth is… it was me.
I was the one who opened the door….
Some time after that, we were at my grandparents’ house.
DSS was there—our regular social worker, Heidi, and another woman I didn’t know.
I didn’t understand what was happening, but I remember being told that my grandmother had confirmed the truth.
She had backed it up.
And now… we had to leave before Anna showed up.
Everyone was crying.
I felt completely lost.
They split us up again. Rose and I were put in one car. Baby Lily and Ethan went into another. Everyone else stayed on the porch.
Then Anna came.
She sped into the driveway in her van, furious.
She got out screaming, ready to fight.
I was already in the car with the door open when she yelled at me,
“Get out! Get in the van!”
Before I could even move, Rose screamed out,
“Don’t hit my mommy!”
Everything exploded into motion at once. Rose and I ran toward the other car where Lily and Ethan were. They were both crying—confused, scared, too young to understand what was happening around them.
Rose grabbed the tissues that were in the car and started wiping their tears, trying to calm them down the best she could. Her hands were shaking, but she kept telling them it was okay, even when it wasn’t.
I stood beside her, blocking the door, trying to protect them all—watching Anna from across the driveway, terrified of what she might do next.
I was at the other car with my siblings open when she yelled at me, “Get out! Get in the van!”
And for a second… I tried to.
I was going to. Rose was ready to run too.
Because that’s what I’d always done—obeyed her voice, followed her lead.
Even when it hurt.
But the social worker Heidi stopped me.
She told me firmly, “No. Get in the car with your sister. Lock the doors.”
I froze.
I didn’t know who to listen to.
I felt torn in two.
Then I saw it— Anna punched the other social worker in the face.
Cut her eyebrow because of her wedding ring.
But the other woman didn’t fall.
She stood firm.
She didn’t let Anna’s anger stop her from protecting us.
Heidi, the social worker near me, told me again,
“Get in the car! Now! Lock the doors!”
So I did.
I helped Rose first—she was crying.
Then I climbed in behind her and locked the doors.
I was crying too.
Scared.
Shaking.
Not understanding how everything had fallen apart so fast.
I was the big sister, but I didn’t feel brave.
I felt helpless. When I shouldn’t.
And then I watched Anna.
I watched her get back in her van and drive away—fast.
She didn’t fight for us.
She didn’t even say goodbye.
I watched her give up on us…
In that moment, it felt like she gave up.
And I remember wondering, I hope she didn’t hit my dog Gracie because of the direction she went. The house we lived in near are grandparents.
My dog. My comfort.
I never got to find out.
As we pulled away, the social worker looked at us through the mirror and asked gently, “Are you girls okay?” She told us everything was going to be all right.
But I didn’t know what to feel.
Not really.
I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t calm. I wasn’t even sure if we were safe yet.
I just sat there, holding in the tears, holding Rose’s hand, and holding a weight I didn’t have words for. That was the day we left Anna. But more than that— it was the day we were left behind.
That’s when Rose and I went to our first foster home, and one of many.
We weren’t placed with Lily and Ethan.
They were taken somewhere else.
Even though Rose was with me, it still felt like parts of my heart were missing.
I don’t want to talk about the house itself.
But I do remember this: It felt safer than home.
We ate meals like a family. We said a prayer every night before bed. At first, the prayer felt unfamiliar—like something I was stepping into without knowing all the words and not how I thought about prayer.
But I tried. I listened. I followed.
The foster mother never made me feel bad for not knowing it by heart.
She smiled, guided us gently, and gave us space to learn.
Our Father, who art in heaven,
Hallowed be Thy name.
Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done,
On earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive those who trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from evil.
For Thine is the kingdom,
And the power,
And the glory, forever and ever.
Amen.
Each night we prayed, I felt something soften in me. It didn’t erase what had happened. It didn’t stop the sadness or confusion. But it gave me a moment of stillness. A rhythm. A reason to breathe.