When You Were Mine

“I’m not allowed to shout?” I demand, although perhaps I should have denied the shouting altogether. It’s not as if I shout that often, and every parent loses her temper once in a while. “You do realize one of my neighbors has Alzheimer’s and the other one drinks his body weight in beer on a daily basis? These are your witnesses to my so-called shouting?” Each word quivers with emotion, but at least I got it all out with some semblance of calm.

“We’re building a whole picture here, Beth,” Susan says in a soothing voice I decide I hate. She holds her hands palm-up as if I’m aggressive and need to be placated. She’s also using her “patient” voice, and saying my name too much. I’m sure someone teaches all that as part of how to be a social worker, and I loathe every bit of it. “A whole picture of you and Dylan, and your life together. And I’m afraid that the picture I’m seeing raises some definite concerns about his well-being.”

I thrust my chin out, determined to be defiant, even though I know that attitude doesn’t work. It will only hurt me, make Susan judge me even more, tick some box on her form. Mother displayed worrying signs of aggression. “Like what?”

“Like the fact that you have not taken Dylan to any of his medical appointments or psychological assessments in the last eighteen months.”

“I took him to the pediatrician, and he said he was fine.”

“Yes, that was one opinion.”

“And that’s not enough? How many doctors do I have to take him to before you’re satisfied?”

Susan ignores my question. “It has become clear to me,” she says in that same, calm voice, “after speaking with both you and Dylan, and observing your life together, that you love each other very much.”

“Yet you want to take him away from me.” I speak bitterly, trying to keep the tears from springing to my eyes. I don’t want to cry. I can’t be that weak. My arms tighten around my son.

Susan’s expression remains blandly sympathetic as she continues, “Over time, it has also become apparent that Dylan does not have any peers, or friends, or any social interaction outside of the home. He doesn’t speak or interact with anyone but you. That’s not healthy, Beth. It’s not good for Dylan’s social or intellectual development, and, as I’m sure you realize, it will become even more detrimental to his development as he matures.”

I am silent, because I know it’s true, but what am I supposed to do? And what is so important about peers, anyway? As for friends, I don’t have any, either, and I’m fine. I don’t say any of that, though, because I know it would somehow all count against me.

I also know that my life—Dylan’s life—isn’t normal. I’m not so far down the wretched rabbit hole of my reality that I don’t realize that, that I don’t think it every single day—while I’m crouching next to Dylan in the supermarket, praying he’ll get up off the floor. When I’m in the library, reading the same book to him, twenty times in a row while the librarian looks on, bemused. When I lie in bed at night, almost afraid to breathe, because I might wake him up.

Most people don’t live like this, and there’s a reason why. It’s hard. It’s lonely. Sometimes it’s boring, and when it’s not, it’s worse. But it works. What we have works. And I know Susan will never understand or accept that. There’s no point in me even trying to explain it, because if I can’t tick the boxes on whatever sheet she has, I’m a problem that has to be solved, and the only solution she sees is taking Dylan away from me. But she can’t. I can’t let her.

“Beth, I want you to try not to see me as the enemy,” Susan says gently. “I know it’s hard, but please, please try to understand that what I am recommending now is not just for Dylan’s benefit, but for yours. I want you to be the best mother you can be to Dylan, and I want the two of you to thrive as a family. I am getting involved in a more direct way to help you achieve those goals.”

I don’t reply, because I am trying not to cry, and the truth is, some desperate part of me wants to believe her. If someone can help me, really help me, give Dylan and me a chance at a more normal, integrated life, then I want that. Who wouldn’t?

Yet not like this. Never like this.

“Beth.” Susan reaches over and puts her hand on mine. It is warm and soft, like a grandmother’s hand, not that I’d even know. My grandparents died before I was born. But it’s a human touch and even though my instinct had been to pull away, I realize I appreciate it, especially as I suspect it’s against all those safeguarding rules. “Let me help you,” Susan says

and I stare at her, my eyes swimming with tears, my boy’s head resting against my shoulder. He’s still asleep; he must have been really exhausted, or maybe this situation is so overwhelming for him that his body has simply turned off, shut down. I wrap my arms around him, savoring his warmth, the slightly salty boy smell that is so familiar to me. How on earth could I ever let him go?

“He’s never been without me,” I say, my voice wobbling all over the place. “How could living with strangers help him? He won’t be able to stand it.” Just saying the words out loud makes my stomach hollow out. Dylan can’t deal with strangers. He’s still terrified of our mailman, and he’s been coming to our apartment every day for four years. Dylan has never been a single day without me. He can’t start now. I won’t let them take him.

“You’d be surprised,” Susan says gently, “how children adjust.”

But Dylan won’t adjust. He never adjusts to anything, which is why our life is the way it is. He views just about everything as a threat or a danger. He’s scared of the slide, of hardback books, of broccoli and clothing tags. Each one, unless avoided or carefully managed, can send him spinning into a terrified tantrum.

But I know Susan won’t believe me if I try to make her understand, just as I know, with a sickening lurch of realization, I have no real choice in this matter, the most important one in my life. That’s been clear from the beginning of this conversation, no matter how Susan tries to couch it in language about supporting me. She’s already decided, and there is nothing I can do.

“Why aren’t you out catching all the child killers?” I demand in a shaky voice as I yank my hand from under hers. “Or dealing with the pimps and the child prostitutes on the Berlin Turnpike? Aren’t they more pressing cases than my son?”

Susan says nothing, but something flickers across her face that makes me think she’s heard this a thousand times before. I know I said as much myself, a year ago, but I mean it so much more now, when my life is about to be ripped open, torn apart. Why me, and not them?

“Well?” My voices rises querulously. “Why aren’t you?”

“The Department of Children and Families deals with many different cases,” Susan answers in a quiet, steady voice that suggests she has said this exact phrase many times before. “Some are more severe than others. No one is comparing you to anyone else, Beth. No one is saying you are a bad mother.”

“Oh, right. Because good mothers get their kids taken away from them.” I let out a huff of laughter that sounds too much like a sob. I know I am close to breaking down, and I really don’t want to do that. I want to be strong, for my son.

“Let us work with you,” Susan persists. “Together we can build a care plan for Dylan that you’re happy with, working to ensure that he is back with you as soon as possible.”

I shake my head slowly, but already I feel myself weakening. It’s so hard to fight when it’s only me, and what’s the point of fighting, anyway? They’ll take him away no matter how much I resist. They have that power.

And more than any of that, deep down I know I need help, no matter how scared I am to accept it. I know I can’t go on like this, day after day, year after year, exhausted and overwhelmed and alone. All along I’ve known that, even as I’ve done my best not to think about it, even as I hope that somehow, miraculously, things will get better on their own.