It is currently Monday, June 9th, 2025…
I hesitated writing this, knowing it’ll stir something. Maybe some angry texts or passive-aggressive calls about being so open about someone who gave me life.
I’m grateful for those 9 months she carried me, but I’ve spent the 362 since mourning a few moments that came after, while trying to give grace.
I start by thanking my mother. And yet, I often whisper to myself, I wish I’d been asked to be conceived. I wish I could’ve signed some kind of permission slip—one with a careful description of what life would look like both inside the womb and long after it. Honestly, I wouldn’t have signed it.
In the words of William Wordsworth, “The world is too much with us.”
It’s not a dramatic thought. Just a fact. The world is a lot—especially for a Black girl still making sense of what it means to have a mother. I’ve been mothered in many ways, by women who stepped in with strength and love. But my relationship with my mother, the woman who gave me life, has been distant, strained, and nearly absent for years. And sometimes, that gap still aches, and it still comes as a shock.
Today started early. My alarm clock went off at 7:30 a.m., just like it always does. But everything felt heavier. Like, I was buried under winter coats. The sky mirrored me—cloudy, unsure if the sun was too ashamed to shine. I couldn’t see the rain, but I felt it.
Before I threw off the coats and got up, I heard feet tapping near my door. The girls were up. I thought I should get to the bathroom before the youngest camps out for an hour. But I didn’t move. I sat still.
Today is court day.
Today is the day I’ve tried to avoid, denied, hoped wouldn’t come—but it has. It’s only been three days since this whole thing took my personal life by storm.
I breathe deep and slow, into my belly, like my therapist taught me, and out through my mouth as if I’m breathing through a straw. I reach for my phone. No “Good morning, hun” from the guy I’ve been seeing. I tell myself to get used to that. I know he won’t text. A part of me understands. But I still hate it. I want to cry, but I don’t.
I miss him already. And I hate that I do. I’m mad at myself for caring. Mad that while my sister might testify today against the woman who birthed us—I’m still wondering if he thought of me this morning. If he ever really saw me. The timing of this ending feels cruel, but maybe it’s necessary.
Finally, I count down from five.
At four, I lift my head and imagine the coats sliding off.
At three, I sit up, the air thick on my shoulders.
At two, I breathe again.
At one…….my phone dings.
It’s not him. It’s my grandmother. “Good morning.”
Expected.
I know she’s worried. Her own daughter is in jail for not feeding her children, for not taking proper care of the lives she’s created, for mistreating them, for raining down too heavy for bad behavior, behaviors that were created from her own choices. But this isn’t new. My mother wasn’t ready to parent me 30 years ago, or my brother 3 years and 7 days after. She had moments when she held it together and we loved being around her, but she also had moments when she lost her grip—something any mother might face. Yet over time, those moments became patterns, and eventually, choices that have gotten worse.
I think about what we’re about to do this morning. I try to picture my mother. I try not to. I imagine her in orange, shackled, walking into a courtroom that smells like old wood and law and order. I picture the judge peering down on four Black faces—ours—lined in order of birth. No mother. Not just 1 father. Just siblings. We’re parents now. But this isn’t a baby shower. This is a domestic hearing.
Against our own mother.
“Cherry, let’s go. We gotta leave soon.” I hear Arrin call out. She’s stepped into the role I’m familiar with—older sister, caretaker, protector, of the younger one. My heart aches for her. But I can’t think about that now. I tell myself I have to be strong.
I turn on the lamp. I shake off what’s left of the coats. I remind myself: Don’t cry. Not now. Not before 8 a.m.
I can’t stop the flashbacks. My sisters are watching our mother get arrested. Both hands behind her back, there is no self will. The image won’t leave me. I remember the first time I saw her in cuffs, arrested for breaking into her ex-boyfriend’s home after he kicked us out. We had no running water. No lights. For months. Just darkness and desperation.
This time, the charge is different. Worse.
Child neglect.
In New York City, child neglect is a Class A misdemeanor. That’s not just a CPS case—that’s criminal. Jail time. Fines. A record.And a legacy of trauma we didn’t ask for. In fact, over 50% of child welfare cases in NYC involve allegations of neglect, not abuse, often tied to poverty-related issues like housing instability or lack of childcare. But when it’s your family in that courtroom, it’s hard to separate cause from effect.
I wish I could crawl back into bed and turn off the sound of teenagers getting dressed to testify against their mother. I wish I didn’t hear the questions coming:
How are we going to do this? I don’t know.
How can I be a mom to two teens on a nonprofit salary? I can barely take care of myself. I’m still figuring out my career. I’m 30 and just now shaping my world. And yet, here we are—expected to be the world for them.
According to research published in the Journal of Child and Family Studies, children who take on caregiving roles often experience long-term emotional and financial strain, especially in single-parent or low-income households. That’s not just a theory—it’s my life right now.
It feels like it’ll never be enough. It feels like what about me?
I wonder sometimes if I hate her. Not her, exactly — but what she’s done.
I hate the choices that broke us and how her pain spilled over. She never saw the dominoes falling, choosing herself at the wrong times. She should’ve chosen herself 30 years and 9 months ago. Maybe then she’d be happier — a brilliant lawyer or a fierce advocate for fatherless teens, like she once was.
The mother we got was strong but broken, who at first lived off of the love of her children, and when she realized it wouldn’t be enough, she chose to live off of the betrayal of her childhood. Black women are often expected to hold everyone up while having the least support for themselves. My mother was drowning. We just didn’t know it then—or maybe we did, and we were too young to name it.
I’ll end this by thanking my new co-parent. My brother. Without him, the girls wouldn’t have adventures, wouldn’t have a running phone line, wouldn’t have new clothes and shoes. Without him, I would’ve checked out. Without him, this road would feel even darker. Thank you for covering for me, in ways I can’t emotionally and financially. Thank you for holding me accountable, and taking lead in this because at the moment, I fear I may not be strong enough.
I want to thank my grandmother in Atlanta, GA. Without her, the girls wouldn’t have enough food or comfort. She’s cared for me through school, youth, and college, and shaped who I am. Her love went far beyond that of a grandmother—I owe her everything.
I thank them on behalf of our mother, though I doubt she ever would admit.
To the people who want to defend her—please, feel free. But I ask: were you there? Did you live with The Beast? Or were you friends with The Beauty—the one who could charm her way out of pain she created? Two things can be true: she may have been a good friend to you. But she wasn’t that way with us…
To those who say, She’s your mother— forgive and move on,
I have.
I told her I love her, gave her grace,
but also told her she wasn’t there—
I wish she had been.
Just as peace settled,
my sisters became the mirror
of the pain I thought was gone.
Don’t mistake me—I love her. Her laugh. Her wisdom. Her cut-throat words echo, reminding me I’m capable. She once told me, “…You’re just not hungry enough. You don’t want it bad enough.” Those are the words I hear when writing this. The ones I carry as I walk through the galleries of The Met, where I work, searching for inspiration.
You’ve made it this far. Are you still not hungry? Could you eat more? Or are you full?
On the flip side, I wonder if I’ll come to know who my mother is—as a woman. If, in the echoes of parenting my sisters, her voice will return like a ghost—her presence felt in the hard, everyday work of raising children.
I write this knowing that, by the end, I might carry a shred of respect for what she endured. Even though I’m mad as hell, I have to believe I’ll come out stronger—because that’s the only way forward. My therapist said something that stuck:
“You have to believe you’re going to come out of this—because without that, you’re already betting against yourself.”
She said, “Be angry. Have rage. But let it pass. Otherwise, everyone around you will feel it too.”And I can’t help but wonder—if my mother had heard those words some decades ag1o, would things have turned out differently?
This is forcing me to grow up, forcing me to choose between myself and the siblings who didn’t ask to be here.
It feels selfish. But I didn’t ask to be here either.
I chose not to be a mom for this exact reason.
Now, it feels like I may not have a choice. I haven’t written in so long because I’ve been afraid, but not anymore.
I have my mother to thank for that.
And to that I say—What The Hell’s Next?
I know some might read this and say, “Get over it,” or call me selfish for struggling with raising my sisters.
I hear that.
But this isn’t bitterness—it’s honesty.
It’s a layered kind of love.
And this is how I hold all of it—the best way I know how.
What The Hell's Next 