Child Protective Services took custody of our daughter. Her name was Destiny. Three days old, already reduced to paperwork and a case number.
I called every day. I asked where she was, if she was safe, if she was eating. To them, I wasn’t a father. I was an inmate. My rights were “under review.”
Two weeks later, I was told I had a visitor.
I expected my lawyer.
Instead, I walked into the visitation room and froze.
On the other side of the glass sat an older man with a long gray beard and a leather vest covered in motorcycle patches. His hands were rough and scarred. In his arms, wrapped in a pink blanket, was my daughter.
My knees nearly buckled.
“My name is Thomas Crawford,” he said. “I was with your wife when she passed.”
The words hit hard.
He explained that he volunteered at the hospital, sitting with patients who had no one else. He had been called to Ellie’s room. She was alone. She spoke about me. About our daughter. She made him promise that Destiny wouldn’t grow up in the system.
