Published by Adoptive Families May 2018 Issue
Sarrah laughed a little too loudly, running her fingers through her long, fluorescent blue and pink hair. The only flaw on her heart-shaped face was a pale scar to one side of her mouth, like a hairline crack in porcelain. There we were, sitting across from each other in a booth at Chili’s Bar & Grill with our children—hers by birth, mine by adoption.
Sarrah was seeing them for the first time in more than a decade. Devon was 12 with light brown skin. And, now that he was sitting next to her, I could see he had her easy smile. Kayla, 11, fidgeted in the seat next to me, pulling at the strings of her ripped jeans. She cast shy looks my way.
My husband and I adopted Devon and Kayla from foster care when they were toddlers. Because it was a closed adoption, they received new birth certificates and social security numbers to permanently sever the relationship with their birth mother, Sarrah.
When Kayla was five, her curiosity was piqued about her birth mother. I’d patted my growing baby bump and told her and her brother that they were once in Sarrah’s belly, like the baby in mine. “What does JSarrah look like? Where does she live?” Kayla had asked.
I wasn’t sure, so I’d pulled out and read through the adoption case files. When Devon was born, Sarrah was 17 and a foster child herself. He was an infant when she left him sleeping in a motel room to meet a friend in the parking lot. Another guest heard his cries and called 911. Devon was unharmed and his diaper was still dry, but Sarrah was arrested for child abandonment. With no one to bail her out, she was in jail for a month before the charges were dropped. By that time, Devon was in foster care. Kayla was born a few months later, and, since Devon was already in foster care, social services took her too. Eventually Sarrah’s parental rights were terminated.
I told Kayla and Devon their mom was poor and had no family to help her. She loved them and wanted them to be taken care of and that’s why we became their parents. I framed a small photo—a carefully cropped mugshot—of Sarrah for each of them. Kayla, especially, treasured hers.
I kept tabs on Sarrah throughout the years in case Devon and Kayla wanted to contact her when they became adults. Several years ago, while she was serving time for check fraud, I sent her a Christmas card with pictures of the kids. Separated by hundreds of miles and thick prison walls, I didn’t want her to know where we lived, so I sent the letter through a relative.
A couple weeks later I received her forwarded reply. Sarrah’s curly script was embellished with doodled hearts and flowers. “I was so surprised to get this! I will always treasure these pictures. Thank you for taking such good care of my babies when I could not take care of them myself. ”
I read and reread the three-page letter braced for bitterness to slice me like a paper cut. Finding none, I was haunted by the suspicion that the real crime that cost Sarrah her children was being poor. After all, it’s not unheard of for parents to leave kids unattended in a hotel room—running to the lobby, grabbing something out of their car, switching a load of laundry—and they don’t get charged with child abandonment. They don’t lose their children forever.
After being released on parole, Sarrah joined Facebook. She had a penchant for duck-face selfies and over-the-shoulder poses that showed off her Kardashian-esque bottom. She called her boyfriend—a tall, handsome black man with an ankle monitor—her king. She was his queen. Many pictures showed “Coogie” tattooed across her chest, a term I could only find in the online Urban Dictionary: “A cool ass mutha f–er. A cool gangsta.”
Sarrah couldn’t have been more different from me, a conservative, suburban mom. Still, unable to resist dipping my toes in to test the water, I set up a new Facebook account and sent Sarrah a friend request. Seconds later she accepted. Over several months I uploaded hundreds of photos of Devon and Kayla. Sarrah giddily shared them with her Facebook friends, many of whom commented that the kids looked just like her. I noticed it too.
Sarrah and I messaged regularly. She told me about her job assembling furniture and living with her boyfriend in his mother’s house. She was especially proud to have earned her GED and cosmetology license in prison.
When I trusted her to Devon and Kayla, she sent a picture of their initials tattooed on her ankles. “You see? I’ve never forgotten you! I went through a lot when I was younger. I was living on the streets. I’m so sorry. I know you might be angry with me, and that’s OK, but can we be friends? I love you and always will.”
Devon was ambivalent about the relationship, but Sarrah and Kayla swapped emoji stories and pictures of their hairstyles and outfits nearly every morning. Some afternoons they would bike, dance to the radio, or play with the puppy together—courtesy of FaceTime.
Sarrah was seeing a court-ordered therapist, taking medication for her bipolar disorder, and submitting to regular drug testing. I was rooting for Sarrah but worried whether she could keep her life on track once off parole. This felt like a once in a lifetime opportunity for Devon and Kayla, so I booked her a flight to visit.
At the airport, Kayla cradled a Grande Caramel Frappuccino with whipped cream and a drizzle of caramel sauce—Sarrah’s favorite. With her fluorescent hair and bright pink jeans, we had no problem picking her out of the crowd at baggage claim. Kayla snuck up behind her, so close that when Sarrah spun around squealing, she nearly dropped the Frappuccino. Teetering on black, stiletto boots Sarrah kissed Kayla and Devon’s cheeks and pulled them into an awkward hug. Devon eagerly took the handle of her suitcase, leading the way to the exit, and Sarrah cooed at his chivalry.
Kayla climbed up on a large concrete block to give her a better vantage point, and therefore a better likelihood of seeing the shuttle before her brother. She hugged herself to keep warm. “Why didn’t you wear a coat, you silly goose?” Sarrah peeled off her thick coat and put it on Kayla, then wrapped her arms around herself against the cold.
Once in the parking garage the kids trotted ahead of us. Sarrah whispered that she hadn’t smoked for hours—since she left Colorado. “Would it be all right to have a cigarette real quick?” she asked.
“Of course. It’s fine.” I hoped my smile conveyed my sincerity. This weekend promised to be stressful enough without Sarrah having nicotine withdrawal. While she hid out of view behind other cars, I loaded the kids into my minivan.
“Doesn’t she know that’s bad for her?” Kayla blurted. “Doesn’t she know she’ll get lung cancer?”
I hushed her. Sarrah was our guest and we would let her be comfortable.
At Chili’s Kayla squirmed in her seat next to me, shrugging shyly whenever Sarrah asked her a question. Devon was chirpy, eager to capture and hold Sarrah’s full attention. He told her he liked bowling, video games, soccer, LEGOs, and dogs. His favorite color was green and his best friend was named Bobby.
“So, let me tell you what my boyfriend and I do—we pick each other’s noses.” Sarrah mimed the motion. “Then we make the other person eat it. Isn’t that funny?” She hooted with laughter and the kids thought she, if not the story, was hilarious. Me, not so much.
Devon nibbled on a chip and Sarrah exclaimed, “You need more cheese than that! You’re not worried about double dipping are you? Don’t be silly!” Dunking her half eaten chip into the queso Sarrah levered the whole thing into her mouth. She looked around the table, chomping enthusiastically. Then, pausing, she slowly lifted a hand to cover her mouth. “Oh,” she mumbled. “You don’t double dip, do you.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I waved my hand, permission for Devon and Kayla to double dip as well.
Sarrah’s face flushed. “I’m so embarrassed. I’m just so different than ya’ll.”
It was true. I held down a professional job and owned a house and two cars. I had student loans and no criminal record. While Sarrah spent her evenings partying, I spent mine packing school lunches and helping with homework. She double dipped. I did not.
As we left the restaurant I touched Sarrah’s arm. “You and I are different, but I’m glad we are. The kids have a special relationship with you that they can’t have with me. I’m so happy you’re here.” Beaming she gave me a quick hug.
Later that night, I supervised showers and teeth brushing, then Sarrah tucked Devon and Kayla into bed. She kissed them each good night, told them she loved them, and blew more kisses from the door.
The next day we went bowling and out for lunch. She gave Devon and Kayla piggy back rides and pushed them on the swings at the playground. That evening we had hot chocolate and popcorn. Devon and Kayla pulled out our scrapbooks and showed Sarrah pictures of themselves and scanned copies for her of their artwork and school work from over the years.
I asked Sarrah to tell us Devon and Kayla’s birth stories. Pulling Devon onto her lap, and with Kayla curled up next to her on the couch, Sarrah told us that Devon was her Valentine, born on February 14. Her foster mother, Teresa, had been there for the birth. Devon had soft brown eyes and all she wanted to do was hold him.
When Sarrah was pregnant with Kayla she’d had no friends to take her to the hospital. Kayla came out with a pouf of curly hair. All the nurses said she was the prettiest baby girl they’d ever seen. “You were so cute!” Sarrah tickled Kayla’s side until they both giggled and rolled off onto the floor.
Before we went to bed, Sarrah drew a thick tree trunk and the outline of a wide leaf canopy on a piece of paper. She wrote in the names of Devon and Kayla’s grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. She noted that her mother, Debbie, had died from colon cancer. Aunt Darlene had breast cancer and Sarrah’s half sister, Katie, had cerebral palsy. I was touched by this simple family tree and the kids’ birth stories, gifts most adopted children never have.
On Sunday evening Kayla lay on the kitchen counter and Sarrah cradled her head in the sink. She massaged in shampoo and conditioner, stopping several times to gently kiss Kayla’s forehead. Sarrah blow dried and flat ironed Kayla’s hair in the playroom while they watched cartoons together. Devon had gone to bed long before and Kayla fell asleep with her head on Sarrah’s lap.
“I never abandoned Devon,” Sarrah told me. “I went to the parking lot for just a few minutes to meet a guy friend who was going to give me some money. This girl who stayed in the motel too was upset because he was her ex-boyfriend, so she called the cops on me.”
Sarrah had no family; she was 16 when her mother signed her over to social services. “I wasn’t a good kid. I know that. I stole from my mom and ran away a lot. She and her husband didn’t want me back. See this scar?” She leaned toward me and pointed to the tiny scar I’d noticed beside her mouth. “One time I got into a fight with another girl at a group home and she stabbed me in the arm and face.”
After a long silence I asked, “What happened with Kayla?”
“The social worker took her right after she was born. I’m not gonna lie to you,” she said. “I left the hospital and I sat on the curb outside. I had nowhere to go, no one to call for a ride. I just gave up. I knew I would never be able to get them back living on the street.” The despair and regret on her face made my stomach churn with nausea. I was deeply disturbed. That wasn’t how things were supposed to work.
The next morning we dropped the kids off at school before I took Sarrah to the airport. After hugs, kisses, cheek pinching, and giggling we waved goodbye. Before Sarrah entered the security line we hugged. I knew I’d always see Sarrah’s beautiful face reflected in Devon’s smile and Kayla’s dimples. We promised to do another visit soon, but that never happened.
As I’d feared, with the weight of a felony tethering her, Sarrah struggled to keep her head above the water when she got off parole a few months later. She struggled to find jobs and housing. Without health insurance, she stopped seeing her therapist and taking her bipolar medications.
On Christmas Eve I called Sarrah so Devon and Kayla could say Merry Christmas. No answer. No call back. She hadn’t posted on Facebook since December 21. By January, I was very concerned and scoured the Internet. I knew to start with arrest records. Sure enough, Sarrah had gotten tangled up with a gang and was arrested trying to use stolen checks. Charged with three felonies, she faced a decade or more of prison time.
Several days later, I penned the address of the jail onto an envelope and added Sarrah’s inmate number. Before sealing the envelope, I slid in pictures from her weekend visit. Later I would make a small deposit to her commissary account. When I put the envelope in the mailbox and raised the flag, I knew this would be only the first of many letters.
As I walked back inside the house, Kayla was already putting her shoes on, excited to go. She had a salon appointment to get a purple streak in her hair.