The sheer mind-bending stress of being your foster mom led to iconic images lodged in my head–

You two sitting across the table from me the first day I met you. Sizing me up over peanut butter sandwiches.

You eyeing your brother suspiciously. A lot.

You waking up one night when he woke up screaming (night terrrors) and looking at him with sleepy exasperation and then flopping down in relief when I scooped him up and took him to another room to ride out the storm–your body language was not my problem, back to sleep.

One night when you were ready for bed in your winter jammies. Your hair curly and adorable. I tickled you and you giggled, for a rare moment of laughter and peace.

You can be angry at me all you want. But you can’t stop love.

Your other mom