Letter From a Grieving Mother in Connecticut

It has been 123 days since my heart has felt whole.

123 days since I’ve woken up to my children’s beautiful smiling faces. One hundred twenty-three days without singing my 9-year-old her “special song” every night before bed. One hundred twenty-three days without waking up in the middle of the night with my almost 9-month-old to make a bottle, change her diaper, and simply soak in those quiet, precious snuggles when it was just the two of us.

I don’t get to watch my daughters laugh together anymore. I don’t get to see them love each other, smile at each other, or grow together. I don’t get to watch my husband be the incredible father he is. I don’t get to curl up on the couch with my family for our movie nights—the simple moments I once took for granted because I never imagined they could be taken away.

Nothing prepares you for this kind of pain. Nothing prepares you for grieving children who are very much alive.

Nothing prepares you for the loneliness, or for the people you believed would stand beside you through anything suddenly disappearing. Nothing prepares you for realizing that people you thought were your friends are talking behind your back while you’re fighting the hardest battle of your life.

Every second, every minute, every hour that passes is valuable bonding time I can never get back.

I missed my baby’s first roll. The first time she sat up by herself. Her first foods. Her first “mama” and “dada”—words that, heartbreakingly, weren’t spoken to her actual mama and dada.

For 123 days, I’ve gone to bed not knowing where my baby is or whether either of my children is okay emotionally, mentally, or physically. I lie awake at 3:00 in the morning researching anything—anything—that might help bring my babies home until it’s time to get up for work. On my days off, I sit in my living room staring at the wall or endlessly researching, trying to find answers until it’s time to force myself to sleep again.

As if a huge piece of my heart isn’t missing. The depression. The sadness. The grief. It never really ends. I’ve just gotten better at pretending I’m okay.

People ask how someone moves on from something like this. Whether they get their children back or not. I honestly don’t know if you ever do. I already feel the trauma following me everywhere. The anxiety. The PTSD. The person I was before this feels so far away.

People often say they wouldn’t wish something like this on anyone. I understand why they say that. But I wish the people making these life-changing decisions truly understood what this feels like. I wish they could, even for a moment, experience the devastating consequences of being separated from the people you love most. Maybe then there would be more compassion. Maybe then there would be more accountability. Maybe then they would help create the changes that families desperately need.

In our perfect world—the life we had before all of this—we would already be expecting our last baby, completing the family we dreamed of.

Instead, we are living under four different roofs. Every day I wake up wondering what the next day will bring.

Before all of this, I had the life my older daughter and I had always dreamed about. An amazing husband. An incredible father and stepfather. Our beautiful children. A happy home. Plans to grow our family. Then everything changed.

During a supervised visit with my baby girl, I had a miscarriage. I didn’t even realize what had happened until the next day. But that isn’t the saddest part. The saddest part is that instead of only feeling grief, we also felt relief. Relief that another baby—the baby we wanted so desperately—would never have to endure what our children are being forced to endure.

There are days when the pain feels so overwhelming that I don’t know how people survive it. The silence is unbearable. Every day without movement in this case feels like another piece of our lives slipping away. Every day that passes is another day my baby spends with her pre-adoptive foster family. Another day she grows further away from us. Another day she knows someone else as “Mom” and “Dad.” Another day of memories we’ll never get back.

Those are moments that can never be replaced.

And if the truth comes out—because I believe it will—that my daughter was never abused, who will be held accountable for the irreversible damage done to my family?

Who will answer for the nights I’ve cried myself to sleep?

For the birthdays, milestones, and firsts that were stolen?

For the trauma my children now carry?

For the days my oldest daughter cries asking when she can finally come home.

For the days she asks when she’ll get to hug her stepdad again.

For the days she asks why she can’t see her baby sister.

For the nights she sobs, terrified that if we get divorced we’ll never be happy again, asking if we’ll ever marry anyone else.

For the fear, confusion, and heartbreak that no child should ever have to carry.

All of this because of something that we believe never happened.

No apology can give us those days back. No explanation can erase this trauma.

One day, I will get my children back. One day, I will have my family together again. And one day, the full truth will come to light.

When that day comes, I won’t choose silence.

I will tell our story. I will fight for awareness. I will advocate for change. I will stand beside other families who find themselves in the same nightmare.

If our pain can help prevent another family from experiencing this, then I will spend the rest of my life making sure our voices are heard because no family should have to endure this without being heard.

And I refuse to let our story end in silence.

If you would like to help this family fight for their children, please consider donating here. 100% of all donations go directly to our monthly family spotlight. Every cent raised in June will go to this family in need.