the system. Just like I’d been. The cycle repeating itself.
I called every day begging for information. Where was my daughter? Who had her? Was she safe? Nobody would tell me anything. I was just a convict. Just a criminal. My parental rights were “under review.”
I shuffled into the visitation room expecting my attorney. Instead, I found an old white man with a long gray beard and a leather vest covered in patches. He was holding my daughter.
I froze. My legs stopped working. My heart stopped beating.
“Marcus Williams?” the man asked. His voice was gruff but gentle.
I couldn’t speak. Could only stare at the tiny bundle in his arms. At the face I’d only seen in one photograph the attorney had brought me.
“My name is Thomas Crawford. I was with your wife when she died.”
I found my voice. “What? How? Who are you?”
Thomas sat down on the other side of the glass. He positioned Destiny so I could see her face through the barrier. She was sleeping. So small. So perfect.
“I volunteer at County General,” Thomas said. “I sit with terminal patients who don’t have anyone. Hold their hands. Talk to them. Make sure they don’t die alone.”
I was crying now. Couldn’t stop. “Was she… was she scared?”
“She was worried about the baby. About you. But I held her hand and talked to her. Told her everything was going to be okay. Told her the baby was perfect and healthy.”
Thomas’s voice cracked. “She asked me to make sure Destiny didn’t end up in the system. Said she knew what foster care did to you. Said she couldn’t bear the thouContinue reading…
