“Mom, it’s going to be the fifth,” my son told me, and in that instant, something d.ie.d inside me. I had spent seven years raising his children, exhausted, broke, and completely alone, until I made the hardest decision: I called child protective services. Hours later, sharp knocks shook my door, and I heard, “Ma’am, you’re under arrest.” But the truth of that night was far worse than I could have imagined.

I looked up from the sink and didn’t say a word because I wasn’t even shocked anymore, I was just consumed by a fatigue that felt like it was written into my very bones. Jordan kept talking about how they needed my help for just a few more months and how nobody could love those kids like their grandma could, but I finally saw the truth behind his flattery.

He didn’t see me as a mother who deserved rest, he saw me as a free service and a permanent solution to his lack of responsibility. That night, I sat at my small wooden table and counted the few crumpled bills left in my wallet after paying for the kids’ school supplies and shoes.

It was a pathetic sight because my modest pension was being drained by a family of five while I was canceling my own dental appointments because I simply couldn’t afford the co-pay. My hands were shaking from pure exhaustion, so the next morning I drove to the local elementary school to speak with the counselor about my two oldest grandsons.