On the day they took Samuel away, I told him, “This isn’t forever.” I was left to look after my brother, who was six years old, until the system separated us when I was fourteen.
I kept a little apartment ready for him, with his tatty teddy bear on the pillow and his favorite dinosaur bedding cleaned, with every penny I earned from three jobs, night school, eight foster homes, and several court petitions.
During our supervised visits, he would murmur, “When can I come home?” Then, praying it wasn’t a lie, I would stammer, “Soon.”
During the final custody hearing, which felt like our last hope, Samuel sobbed softly in the back row, the judge frowned at my documents, and the social worker called me “too young.”
Then came what I can still picture in my mind: the judge put on his glasses and began to speak.
My younger brother, Samuel, has always been my entire world. I’ve always been the one to protect him, particularly when our mother couldn’t. But as I stood in the courtroom today, I feared the unthinkable: that I might lose him. Even though this hearing was supposed to be the first step toward my obtaining custody, the judge’s suspicion made it clear that the road ahead would be challenging.
The silence in the room was oppressive. I felt like everyone was waiting for me to fail. I clenched my hands, trying to keep my cool. It was impossible to lose Samuel. Not after what we had experienced.
Beside me sat Francis, the caseworker. Her eyes were compassionate despite her polished exterior. “Brad, you’re doing everything right, but it’s not enough,” she said in a whisper.
Her words were hurtful. Not enough money. Not enough space. Not enough experience. I thought I was failing all the time.
I sacrificed sleep, worked double shifts at my warehouse job, and studied for my GED in an effort to meet their expectations. Whispering, “I’ve done everything you asked,” I shuddered.
Francis exhaled deeply. “You have. But there are still challenges.
I couldn’t take it any longer. As I sprinted out of the room, the cold air outside hit me like a slap. I exhaled deeply and watched it disappear into the cold, much like the life we had before everything fell apart.
When I was six years old, I remember sitting with our mother and watching her perform card tricks. Those were magical days, despite the fact that we had nothing but a shabby deck of cards and a creaking fan.
“Pick one,” she smiled. I went with the five of hearts. She opened it over the deck. “What did you do about that?” I asked, in awe.
“A magician never tells,” she remarked with a sly smile.
As I grew older, I realized that her joy was a fleeting illusion that disappeared when life dealt us more challenging cards.
I collapsed back onto the couch in my small basement apartment. Samuel was required by the state to have his own room, and my job barely covered the expenses. But how could I afford a bigger room?
Then Mrs. Rachel, my landlady, knocked. She entered with cookies and a distressed look on her face. She asked, “How was court?”
“They want evidence that I can support him, like I wouldn’t starve myself to make sure he’s fed,” I shot back, frustrated.
She sighed. “Mijo, the system needs something more substantial, but love is just one thing.”
I rubbed my temples, feeling helpless. They claim my place is too small. He needs a private area.
Mrs. Rachel shrugged after hesitating. “Repair the spare room upstairs. The rent is the same. Don’t burn my house down, please.
I blinked. “Are you serious?”
She nodded. “It needs work, but it’s a real bedroom.”
I found it hard to believe. I had the chance to prove that Samuel was a member of my family.
That evening, I worked very hard to restore the room, painting the walls blue because that’s Samuel’s favorite color. It wasn’t fancy, but it was full of love.
Two days later, Francis came to see. As she looked around the room, her scowl deepened. “Stability is essential to childrearing, Brad,” she said.
I answered, “I know,” but I bit my tongue.
She softened. You’re trying your best. You have to prove that you can do this, though.
In the last three weeks, I worked harder. Mrs. Rachel introduced me to Mr. Davidson, a lawyer. My best option, he said, was kinship care.
The night before the hearing, Mrs. Bailey, Samuel’s foster mother, then gave a call. We wrote a letter to the judge. You should have Samuel with you.
The next day, I made sure to look the judge in the eye when it was my turn to stand in court.
I’ve always looked after Samuel, even as a child. I am able to give him a safe and caring home.
“The best place for Samuel is with his brother,” the judge declared following an endless quiet.
Samuel came running to me, and we gave each other a hug. We prevailed. Finally, we were together.
As we left the courtroom hand in hand, I laughed. “Pizza to celebrate?”
Samuel grinned. “Pizza!” For the first time in a long time, I also came to believe in the actual power of family.
