Didn’t matter.
She found a toy in the hallway. A shirt draped over a chair. One plate in the sink.
FAILED again.
That’s when she said it—flat, professional, like she was reading from a script.
“One more failed inspection, and we’ll have to consider placing the child in foster care.”
I remember standing there, looking at that single plate in the sink, and feeling something inside me crack.
Because Noah was in a carrier against my chest, asleep. Safe. Calm.
And they were talking about taking him away because my house looked lived in.
That night, I did something I hadn’t done in years.
I asked for help.
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