“This isn’t forever,” I told Samuel the day they took him away. I was left to care for my 6-year-old brother until the system split us up when I was 14.
Every dime I made from three jobs, night school, eight foster homes, and innumerable court petitions went toward keeping a little apartment ready for him, complete with his tatty teddy bear on the pillow and his beloved dinosaur bedding cleaned.
“When can I come home?” he would whisper during our monitored visits. and I would stutter, “Soon,” hoping it wasn’t a lie.
The social worker referred to me as “too young,” the judge scowled at my documents, and Samuel sobbed quietly in the back row during the final custody hearing, which felt like our last hope.
Then came the scene that I can still see in my head: the judge put on his spectacles and started talking.
Samuel, my younger brother, has always been everything to me. I have always been the one to keep him safe, especially when our mother was unable to do so. However, I dreaded the unfathomable today as I stood in the courtroom: that I would lose him. The judge’s skepticism made it apparent that the path ahead would be difficult, even though this hearing was meant to be the first step toward my obtaining custody.
The room was suffocatingly quiet. Everyone seemed to be waiting for me to fail. I tried to remain composed by clenching my hands. Samuel could not be lost. Not with what we’d been through.
Francis, the caseworker, sat next to me. Despite her polished appearance, her eyes showed compassion. She whispered, “Brad, you’re doing everything right, but it’s not enough.”
It hurt what she said. Insufficient funds. Insufficient room. Insufficient experience. I felt like I was constantly failing.
I did everything I could to live up to their expectations, including studying for my GED, working double shifts at my warehouse job, and giving up sleep. I trembled as I whispered, “I’ve done everything you asked.”
Francis let out a sigh. “You have. However, obstacles still exist.
It was too much for me to handle. The chilly air outside hit me like a slap as I ran out of the room. Like the life we had before everything came apart, I let out a long breath and watched it go in the cold.
I recalled sitting with our mother when I was six years old and watching her do card tricks. Even though we only had a creaky fan and a battered deck of cards, those times were magical.
“Select one,” she grinned. The five of hearts was my choice. Over the deck, she unveiled it. “How did you manage that?” I inquired, amazed.
She smirked and said, “A magician never tells.”
As I became older, I saw that her happiness was a mirage that vanished as life handed us more difficult cards.
I sank back into the couch in my tiny flat in the basement. The state mandated that Samuel have his own room, and my employment barely paid the bills. However, how could I pay for a larger space?
Then my landlady, Mrs. Rachel, knocked. She came in with cookies and a worried expression. “How was court?” she inquired.
Frustrated, I retorted, “They want evidence that I can support him, like I wouldn’t starve myself to make sure he’s fed.”
She let out a sigh. “Mijo, love is one thing, but the system requires something more substantial.”
I felt powerless and rubbed my temples. My place is too small, they say. He requires a private space.
Mrs. Rachel hesitated, then gave a shrug. “Repair the upstairs extra room. Rent is the same. Please don’t set my house on fire.
I blinked. “Are you serious?”
She gave a nod. “It’s a real bedroom, but it needs work.”
It was unbelievable to me. I had an opportunity to demonstrate that Samuel was a part of my family.
I put a lot of effort into fixing the room that evening, painting the walls blue, which is Samuel’s favorite color. It was full of affection, but it wasn’t fancy.
Francis visited two days later. Her frown grew as she viewed the room. “Brad, stability is key to raising a child,” she stated.
I bit my tongue and said, “I know.”
She became softer. “You’re making an effort. However, you must demonstrate your ability to do this.
I intensified my efforts in the final three weeks. Mr. Davidson, a lawyer, was introduced to me by Mrs. Rachel. Kinship care, he claimed, was my best bet.
Then, Samuel’s foster mother, Mrs. Bailey, called the night before the hearing. For the judge, we composed a letter. Samuel should be with you.
When it was my turn to stand in court the following day, I made sure to look the judge in the eye.
Despite my youth, I have always taken care of Samuel. I can provide him with a loving and secure home.
The judge said, “The best place for Samuel is with his brother,” after an interminable period of silence.
Samuel rushed over to me, and we embraced. We were victorious. We were together at last.
I chuckled as we walked hand in hand out of the courtroom. “To celebrate, pizza?”
Samuel smiled. “Pizza!” And I believed in the true power of family for the first time in a long time.
