My mother told the doctor I was faking my seizure for attention while I was unconscious on the floor

She asked if I wanted to participate in the supervised visits with my mother. I said I’d think about it.

I didn’t know if I had the capacity to sit in a room with her. I didn’t know if I could pretend we could repair something that had maybe never existed in the first place.

Maya graduated that spring. I watched her walk across the stage in her cap and gown and felt proud and sad at the same time.

I was proud because she’d worked so hard. I was sad because she was leaving for college in the fall and I’d still be here finishing my senior year.

She’d gotten into a good school three hours away. It was far enough to feel like independence but close enough to visit.

We talked about trying to make long-distance work. We talked about video calls and weekend visits.

But sitting at her graduation party in her parents’ backyard, I felt the inevitable end approaching. It wasn’t because we didn’t care about each other, but because she was moving forward into her future and I was still stuck trying to survive my present.

She found me later sitting alone by the fence. She sat down next to me in her graduation dress and leaned her head on my shoulder.

She asked what I was thinking about. I told her the truth, that I was happy for her but scared to lose her.

I told her she’d been my anchor through everything with my mother and CPS and foster care. I said that I didn’t know how to do this without her.

She took my hand and squeezed it. She said I was stronger than I thought.

She said I’d survived things that would have broken other people. She said she wasn’t going anywhere permanently, just to school, and that we’d figure it out.

But there was something in her voice, a hesitation, a sadness. We both knew it, even if we didn’t say it.

Sometimes love isn’t enough when your lives are pulling you in different directions. Sometimes caring about someone means letting them go even when it hurts.

We sat there by the fence until the sun went down. Her mother called everyone inside for cake.

I kissed her in the shadows and tried to memorize how it felt, just in case. Summer came and went.

I got a job working at a grocery store to save money. I lived at Patricia’s house, went to therapy every week, and took my medication.

I didn’t have any seizures. I saw Maya twice before she left for college.

Both times felt forced and awkward in a way they never had before. We were already growing apart, creating distance to make the inevitable split easier.

She texted me on her first day of classes with pictures of her dorm room. I responded with congratulations and a heart emoji.

Three weeks later, she called and said we needed to talk. I already knew what was coming.

She said long distance was harder than she’d thought. She said she needed to focus on adjusting to college.

She said she cared about me but couldn’t give me what I needed right now. I told her I understood and I meant it.

We said we’d stay friends. Both of us knew that probably wouldn’t happen, but we said it anyway because it made the ending feel less final.

Senior year started, and I threw myself into it. I applied to colleges, wrote scholarship essays, and worked on weekends.

I spent evenings doing homework at Patricia’s kitchen table while she cooked dinner and David watched the news. Sienna had been reunited with her mother.

A new foster kid had moved in, a girl named Jasmine who was 15 and didn’t talk much. I understood that sometimes silence was safer than words.

I’d learned that lesson well. Dr. Ysef and I worked through my trauma in weekly sessions.

He taught me coping strategies for anxiety. He helped me identify negative thought patterns my mother had programmed into me.

He challenged me to imagine what I wanted my life to look like instead of just surviving what it had been. I started to realize I’d never let myself want things before.

I never let myself dream or plan because hope felt dangerous when disappointment was guaranteed. But now, in foster care with distance from my mother, I could start to see possibilities.

The six-month review hearing happened in November. It was the same courtroom and the same judge, but it had a different energy.

My mother’s lawyer presented evidence of her completion of parenting classes and therapy. There were letters from her therapist saying she’d made progress.

Records showed her consistent attendance at supervised visitation. I’d gone to exactly three of those visits.

They’d been stiff and performative. My mother asked surface questions about school, and I gave surface answers.

Both of us were performing for the social worker in the corner taking notes. There was no real conversation and no acknowledgement of what had happened.

It felt like two strangers going through required motions. The judge asked if I wanted to return to my mother’s custody.

I said no. She asked if I’d be willing to try unsupervised visits.

I said no. She asked what I wanted.

I said I wanted to stay in foster care until I turned 18, then go to college and build my own life. My mother’s lawyer argued that I was being stubborn and influenced by anger.

She said that I needed my mother and that family bonds were important. Linda presented counter-evidence.

She showed my therapy records, which indicated significant improvement in foster care. She presented my grades, which had gone from C’s to A’s.

My medical records showed no seizures in almost a year. There were statements from Patricia and David about my progress and a letter from Dr. Okafor supporting my continued stable housing situation.

The judge reviewed everything in silence. Then she made her ruling.

Custody would remain with the state through foster care until my 18th birthday. My mother would retain the right to supervised visitation, but it would not be mandatory for me to participate.

The case would be closed after I turned 18 with no further review. I was essentially emancipated and free.

My mother stood up so fast her chair fell backward. She screamed that this was unjust and that I’d poisoned everyone against her.

She screamed that she’d done nothing to deserve this. The bailiff approached her.

Her lawyer put a hand on her arm and pulled her back down. The judge warned her that outbursts would result in contempt charges.

My mother sat there shaking with rage while I walked out of the courtroom with Linda. Outside, Linda asked if I was okay.

I said I didn’t know. I felt like I should be happy or relieved, but mostly I just felt tired.

She said that was normal. She said that closure often felt more like exhaustion than celebration.

She told me she was proud of me. She said I’d advocated for myself when it mattered most and that I’d broken a cycle.

I thanked her for believing me when nobody else did. I thanked her for seeing what was happening and doing something about it.

She hugged me and said it was her job, but that she’d remember my case. She said that sometimes she saw kids slip through the cracks and it haunted her.

She said that I’d been one of the ones she’d been able to help, and that mattered. We stood in the courthouse parking lot while the November wind whipped leaves around our feet.

Then I got in Patricia’s car and went back to the foster home. It had become more of a home than my mother’s house ever was.

College acceptance letters started arriving in March. I got into three schools with decent financial aid packages.

I chose the one closest to Patricia’s house. David had offered to let me stay with them during breaks until I got on my feet.

They’d become something like family over the past year and a half. They weren’t replacements for what I’d lost, but they were new anchors.

Patricia taught me how to do laundry properly. David helped me learn to change the oil in a car.

They came to my therapy appointments when I needed support. They celebrated when I got my driver’s license.

They helped me pick out a laptop for college. These were small kindnesses that added up to something bigger.