Written by Tara Collins Brent, ABCFOC Parent
I saw the flashlights of the police before I saw their faces—
those wide arcs of white sweeping the edges of the road behind us.
Of course someone had called.
Two kids, one mine, one not, were outside,
screaming profanities into the wind like they were trying to exorcise something.
And maybe they were.
“Get in the car,” I told them, voice calm, mother-practiced.
No big explanations. No theatrics.
Just get in.
They climbed in, still fuming, cheeks flushed, breathing ragged.
One of them had once lived with us.
For two years, we loved that boy like our own.
We helped him return home.
Helped his family rebuild.
And then, not long ago, my husband called from downstairs.
“I think someone’s in the driveway.”
I peeked through the blinds.
There she was, just sitting there, motionless.
My stomach dropped.
Shit.
Had he gone back into foster care, for a third time?
I’d just seen him. Taken him out two weeks ago.
I stepped outside.
She was sobbing. Falling apart.
She always had that weathered look,
years of addiction etched deep into her skin.
She was my mother’s age,
but looked more like my grandmother.
She handed me a note.
Her hands were shaking.
I opened it.
His mom had died.
“Was it an overdose?” I asked.
No. But the years of damage had caught up.
An infection. A body that had simply had enough.
I wrapped my arms around her.
She hadn’t told him yet.
I offered to take him for the day.
And then it hit me.
It was Mother’s Day.
It felt surreal, driving with him past all the signs—
“Brunch Specials for Mom!”
“Mom Deserves the Best!”
knowing his wasn’t alive anymore… and he didn’t know.
Days passed.
A week.
Still, no one had told him.
He was being kept home from school
already at risk of triggering another child welfare investigation.
“You have to tell him,” I said.
“I can’t,” came the reply.
“Bring him over,” I said. “We’ll do it together.”
He came, bouncing up the driveway like nothing had changed.
He was eleven now, towering over me,
wrapped in the kind of wonder that comes with autism
where joy still glows through the cracks.
He beamed.
“Best day ever!” he said, arms wide, giving me one of his signature hugs.
And I sat down, heart heavy,
and delivered the worst news of his life.
He cried.
He screamed.
We held him, me, my husband, his grandmother, and her partner.
The grief was enormous.
But it wasn’t done.
Later that night, we took him to a place we sometimes go
a secluded spot where yelling is allowed.
He lost it.
And my five-year-old, who already carried the loss of his own mother through foster care,
joined him.
It was 11 PM.
And both boys unleashed.
A flurry of grief and rage:
“FUCK YOU!”
“FUCK YOU!”
Over and over again.
At the trees.
At the sky.
At each other.
At the unbearable unfairness of the world.
Then came the sirens.
The flashlights.
Those wide arcs of white across the pavement behind us.
That’s when I said it again:
“Get in the car.”
Buckle up, kids.
I threw it in reverse.
Pulled away.
Headlights off.
No explanation.
Just a getaway driver
with two boys in the backseat
and a storm of grief swirling inside the silence.
My husband looked at me as we turned the corner.
I shrugged.
“It’s probably fine.”
And it wasn’t.
Not really.
But sometimes, when you’re parenting through trauma,
through loss,
through chaos,
“Probably fine” is what hope looks like in the rearview mirror.