My baby was ten days old when they took me away. The cops muttered “Crazy” when they found me standing barefoot on the hot black asphalt, nothing but a towel wrapped around my 200 pounds.

The neighbors had heard me screaming at my husband, but they were too afraid to make the call. They didn’t want me keying their car again or threatening to burn down their house.

You were scared of me too. I saw it on your lousy poker face. You had to wonder how fast you could run after you confessed that my baby boy had been taken from my house. You had to cringe when I learned you’re the reason I have to stay sober, stay clean, stay on the meds I hate because they dull my day, tarnishing the silver jet streams in my head.

You didn’t know what I would say, but you’ve heard me swear and threaten; you’ve seen me put my fist through a wall and kick down a door. But you stood there, and you told me the police took my baby because his crazy parents couldn’t take care of him yet.

I raised my hand. You flinched. I reached in – and hugged you, and I said, “Thank you.”

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