Every Week This Little Girl Cries In My Arms At The Laundromat And I Can’t Tell Anyone Why

pay for treatment. Get them housing. But Destiny begged me not to. “If anyone finds out we’re homeless, they’ll take me away. Mama says we just have to make it a few more months. Just until…” She never finished that sentence. We both knew what “until” meant.

So I did what I could. I slipped money into the clothes when I helped fold them. Twenty here. Fifty there. Enough for food. Medicine. Whatever they needed. I brought “extra” sandwiches I “couldn’t finish.” I “accidentally” bought the wrong size jacket for my “nephew” and gave it to Destiny.

And every week, she cried in my arms. Let out all the fear and pain and grief she couldn’t show her mama. Because her mama needed her to be strong. Needed her to be okay. Needed her not to know how bad things really were.

Three weeks ago, Destiny didn’t show up. I waited for three hours. Nothing. I was terrified something had happened. But I couldn’t go looking for them. Didn’t even know which shelter they were at. Didn’t know her last name. All I could do was wait.

She came the next week. Thinner. Paler. Eyes swollen from crying. “Mama’s in the hospital,” she whispered. “She collapsed. They said she might not come home.”

“Where are you staying?” I asked.

“With a lady from child services. But only temporarily. Just until Mama gets better.” We both knew Mama wasn’t getting better.

“Destiny, I need to tell you something.” I pulled out a document I’d been carrying for weeks. “I’m a licensed foster parent. Got certified last month. If something happens to your mama, you don’t have to go into the system. You can come live with me.”

Her eyes went wide. “But you don’t even know me. Not really.”

“I know you’re brave. I know you’re kind. I know you love your mama more than anything.” I took her small hands in my weathered ones. “And I know what it’s like to lose a daughter. I don’t want you to be alone. Sarah wouldn’t want you to be alone.”

“What if Mama says no?”

“Then we respect her wishes. But at least we tried.”

Destiny’s mama died two weeks ago. I was there. Held Destiny while she said goodbye. Watched a twenty-nine-year-old woman use her last breath to whisper “thank you” to the stranger who’d been caring for her daughter in secret.

The state approved my emergency custody request. Destiny moved in with me three days after the funeral. My bachelor apartment wasn’t ready for a seven-year-Continue reading…