My 6-year-old son went to Disney with my parents and sister. My phone rang. “This is Disney staff. Your child is at Lost & Found.” Shaking, my son said, “Mom… they left me and went home.” I called my mother. She laughed. “Oh really? Didn’t notice!” My sister chuckled. “My kids never get lost.” They had no idea what was coming…
CPS in our home state had indeed investigated. While they didn’t remove Kara’s children, the invasive interviews and the formal file opened against our mother had fractured the remaining family completely.
Kara and my mother no longer spoke to each other. Kara blamed Denise for the CPS involvement; Denise blamed Kara for instigating the abandonment. They were currently spending the holidays in separate houses, trapped in a bitter, miserable feud of their own making.
I read the messages from my cousin, felt a fleeting second of pity, and then permanently deleted the chat. I didn’t care. They were ghosts to me. The people who had laughed while my son cried alone in a strange place did not exist in my reality anymore.
I walked out of the kitchen, carrying a steaming bowl of mashed potatoes, and walked into the dining area.
Elliot was sitting at the table, humming to himself. He was seven now, taller, his shoulders a little broader. He was drawing on a large piece of construction paper with a fresh pack of markers.
It wasn’t a picture of Mickey Mouse. He hadn’t drawn the mouse since that day in Florida.
I set the bowl down and leaned over his shoulder. It was a drawing of a superhero. The figure was wearing a bright blue cape and standing tall. In the superhero’s hand was the tiny hand of a little boy.
“That looks amazing, El,” I said softly. “Who is the superhero?”
Elliot looked up. His big brown eyes were clear, bright, and entirely devoid of the anxiety he used to carry like a heavy backpack. He smiled, a genuine, easy smile.
“It’s you, Mom,” he said simply, as if stating an obvious fact of the universe.
“Me?” I laughed, feeling a sudden, tight emotion in my throat. “I don’t have a cape.”
He shrugged, capping his blue marker. “Yeah, but you came to get me. Even when you were far away. You always answer when I call.”
I smiled, pulling him into a hug, feeling a warmth in my chest that had absolutely nothing to do with the heat of the oven.
I rested my chin on the top of his head, looking around our quiet, safe, unbroken home. I realized then that a year ago, I had felt like a failure because I hadn’t been able to give him the manufactured magic of a billion-dollar theme park.
But looking at him now, confident and secure, I knew the truth. I had given him something infinitely more valuable than a parade or a roller coaster. I had given him the absolute, unwavering certainty that he was safe. I had shown him that he was worth moving mountains for, and worth burning bridges for.
And as I sat down at the table with my son, taking his hand to give thanks for our food and our freedom, I knew I hadn’t missed out on anything. I had finally built the magic kingdom we truly needed, and its walls were impenetrable.
