Page 97 of The Cost of Love

Walking into the building and going through the security check makes this even more real. Seeing our mother dressed up and standing near the courtroom we are supposed to go in really has me choking on reality.

Her normally ragged hair is pressed straight to give her a more put-together appearance. For the first time in years, she isn’t skinny enough to look like she will blow away in the breeze. Her dark skin, given to us all, is smooth and shiny. This is the healthiest I have ever seen her look.

When our eyes meet, she has the nerve to smile before running over to us like it’s a happy reunion. Going first for Gabby, she tries to pull her into a hug. Gabby pushes back and comes to hide behind me.

“Hi, babies,” she says to us while trying to grab Jamal.

Heat creeps up my neck as I step up to her, my fury propelling me forward. “Get away from them,” I practically shout.

“These are my damn kids.” Her smile melts, revealing the sneer we are all more used to.

“The hell they are.”

I can see she’s about to really cause a scene, and so can our social worker because she comes and grabs her, ushering her away from us. My cheeks are still heated, and I’m breathing heavier than I was before, but I lower my shoulders.

“You okay?” Alex asks, pulling me into his side.

“I’m good.” I watch her walk away before turning to the kids and grabbing their hands again.

The tears are back, and this time Gabby is inconsolable. She’s still weeping when they call us into the room.

They all shuffle into the front seats, while I go sit next to Dana at the table. I look back at them and see Alex has his arms wrapped around Jamal and Gabby. Imani holds his hand that hangs off Gabby’s shoulder. I smile at him in gratitude and then look across the aisle at our mum and the social worker. Our mother is pouting, already upset that her wants were not immediately met. Her entitlement showing.

Disgust has my gut bubbling, so I turn to face the front.

“Let’s begin,” the judge says while looking between us. The social worker, Reyna, stands up and begins to present the facts.

“Ms. Deidre Jones lost custody of Jamal Jones, Gabriella Jones, and Imani Jones four years ago due to neglect. In that time, they have been staying in the care of their biological sister, Chanice Jones. The situation was always meant to be temporary while their mother attended parenting courses, addiction counseling, and procured a better living situation. It may have taken some time, but she has completed our rehabilitation plan. We believe she is now a suitable guardian and that the kids should be returned to her care.”

I try to keep my eyes forward and not shoot daggers at the woman who saw exactly what the “neglect” was. The person who, on more than one occasion, has shown up at our home and gushed about how well the kids are doing. The so-called protector of a child’s best interest. I try not to hate her for not seeing the obvious choice.

“So what brings you to my court today?” Judge Martin sits forward and intertwines his hands.

“Their sister would like to maintain custody of the children.”

Dana stands up and introduces herself, garnering the judge’s attention.

“I believe their social worker, Reyna, has really undersold what she means by neglect. The children were malnourished, missing school, and living in a home with no heat in the middle of winter. If they hadn’t walked all the way to their sister’s home with no coats, they would still be living in that situation, if not dead. It took Ms. Jones two weeks to even notice they were missing.”

I clench my hands, but can’t help the tears at the memory. Seeing them when I opened the door, freezing and small, is not something I will ever forget. Nor the tears they cried for days as they ate and slept in a bed.

She broke them, and I have spent years putting the pieces back together. And now she wants to do it again.

Reyna goes to say something, but Dana holds up a hand and keeps speaking.

“My client, Chanice, a child of Ms. Jones as well, knows very well what living in her house looks like. This is obviously a continued pattern that has not improved in twenty-three years. There is no guarantee that she won’t continue these behaviors, further hurting these children.

“Chanice has a solid job, a townhouse with enough rooms for all of them, and a track record of being a good caretaker. She should not only maintain custody of the kids, but also be granted full rights as their legal guardian.”

“That’s rubbish,” our mother yells and stands up.

Reyna puts a hand on her shoulder and tries to lower her back down, but she keeps looking at me like this is my fault.

“These are my damn kids, and I’m a good mother!”

“No, you’re not!” Jamal yells, standing up as well.

I turn and squeeze his arm, but he doesn’t sit until the judge calls all of our attention.