Loose Threads

Some days, Elle and I lose ourselves in beautiful things. We curl up on the couch and inhale Gilmore Girls, trying to understand how to love each other the way Lorelai and Rory do. We scroll clearance dress racks, picking out A-line gowns in our favorite colors for community and family events we have not even been invited to yet. And on other days, we climb real mountains to their highest points and let the views swallow us whole.

Neither of us wanted to be in this situation, but we are learning how to stitch silver linings wherever we can. Weeks, sometimes months, pass before the seams start to fray. It is usually the needlework of her mama, her daddy, or her grandma—people she should be tied to but who never learned how to hem. Our fabric has been worn thin by systems where she slipped through cracks, by social workers who did not protect her, and by teachers who ignored her truancy. Their negligence had been life threatening for this child, and there is no good reason a child should ever be left that vulnerable.

Some days Elle’s trauma pulls at the lining until it tears. There is no pattern to her pain. Some days she grieves what was done to her. Other days she grieves who did not choose her. And on those days, I want to abandon this entire project of raising her, because I am left holding the pieces together while those who caused the tear walk away untouched.

Would she be safe, or was this another moment dressed up as relief but hiding something dangerous underneath.

By the time she had been with us for nearly two weeks, we still believed normalcy was within reach. Now that she had finally gotten away from her father, she thought she could slip back into the group chat. She wanted to reconnect with the six girls her age, the ones she used to share inside jokes with, sit beside at lunch, and meet for the occasional sleepover. She wanted nothing more than to return to that world and step back in as if it had been waiting for her.

“Can I go over to Paisley’s house,” she asked. “My friends are having a sleepover.” She needed this, and we were exhausted. She had been with us thirteen days, and Raf and I had barely slept. Without legal custody, every day we lived with her father’s threats to take her back. He said he was coming to get her because I refused to let her get a nose ring she did not even want. He accused me of teaching her to hate simply because she was finally telling the truth about what he had done. So when she asked about the sleepover, we convinced ourselves she could hide there for one night so we could finally rest.

In the car, I was not sure how to feel. Would she be safe, or was this another moment dressed up as relief but hiding something dangerous underneath. When we pulled up, the girls squealed with excitement. Their dog barked in a way that made me wonder what he had been taught. Inside, a wash of relief filled the kitchen. Raf and I stayed quiet, both of us hesitant to leave her. I watched Elle’s uneasiness surface as the girls ran circles around her. When one complimented her dress, she repeated the joke I had made earlier about how every good dress needs pockets.

As the adults exchanged pleasantries, questions pressed at me:

Did you ever look for her?

Did you call the school?

Did you call her grandmother?

Instead of asking, I chose silence. I let my eyes wander to the family pictures. Paisley was perfect at every age. Some photos showed her alone, others with her father, others with a woman I first assumed was her sister but later realized was her mother, almost a hundred pounds thinner and nearly unrecognizable. The birthdays, holidays, and posed smiles made it clear she was an adored only child. They seemed like good people.

When I handed Paisley’s mom the candles, she asked if I thought her house stank.

I exhaled when her dad told us where he liked to hunt and where he worked. He felt real and uncomplicated, unlike Paisley’s mom. I could not name it, but I felt her apprehension. I wondered if she felt mine. For me, it was hard to trust a woman who did not look like the pictures she hung in her own house.

 On the ride home, we convinced ourselves Elle was safe. The next morning, I felt grateful for their hospitality and gathered two of my favorite three wick candles to bring as a thank you. When we arrived early for pickup, Elle looked disappointed. It was a school night, and I did not want to impose, especially with the long drive. I could see she felt snatched away again. “You can come back,” I reassured her. “Maybe Paisley can see your new room.”

 When I handed Paisley’s mom the candles, she asked if I thought her house stank. The question made no sense at first. But later it was clear. She was not reacting to the candles. She was reacting to me. It was about race.

 I was determined to make this work for Elle, so I continued small gestures of gratitude. Each was met with suspicion or disrespect, and the girls drifted further apart. At the next pickup, I asked if Paisley could join Elle at the Black Wall Street Awards. Elle was excited to dress up and celebrate a community that was beginning to embrace her. I thought it would be a moment where her worlds could meet.

 “Who all is going to be there,” her mom asked. “Grandmothers, elected officials, community leaders, elders. It is safe,” I said. “Who are you,” she asked, her tone sharp. I knew instantly what she meant. Who do you think your Black ass is. It hit me like a master’s whip, quick and cruel, meant to remind me who she believed held the power.

 I kept my voice even for Elle’s sake. “I am not sure what you mean. My company organized the event and we would love to have her.” She was suspicious of me.

But not of Elle’s grandmother who knew her father was strung out. Not of the teachers who let her miss forty five days of school. Not of the systems that failed her at every turn. I was the problem. Just me, the Black woman with candles and groceries.

 I am used to white fragility, white suspicion, and the white gaze. But I had always believed white people looked out for their own. Now I saw that was not true. I wanted to scream, I am judging you. How could you let this happen. She went missing from your community, not mine. What happened to Elle was white on white harm, and as always, a Black woman was left to clean up the mess.

 I did not speak up, but my silence was its own unraveling. By then, I had been fighting for Elle’s life for months. Fighting for DSS to notice. Fighting for her grandmother to care. Fighting her trauma to help her believe she mattered.

These people failed her. Then they flunked her out.

Eventually, Elle was kicked out of the group chat. “It is fine,” she whimpered, turning her phone face down and tracing circles on my bedspread. She blamed herself. Her therapist later diagnosed her with adjustment issues, another label designed to place the blame on the child rather than on the adults who failed her. These people failed her. Then they flunked her out.

She had never been close to Black people before, so she had no idea that race would override who had treated her with love. It always does. One girl finally told her outright that she was being pushed out because she was with Black people. After everything Elle had survived, these white families still could not weave us in for her sake. And we are left trying to figure out how to sew love when all anyone ever hands us are loose threads of incompetence, hate, and neglect.