“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.

At nine o’clock that evening, a series of heavy thuds echoed against my front door that made my heart jump into my throat. When I pulled the door open, I found two uniformed officers standing under the porch light with grim expressions.

“Mrs. Martha Higgins, we need you to come with us right now,” the older officer said while holding a heavy clipboard. I felt the world tilt on its axis as I stood there in my robe, staring at the patrol car parked at the curb while my mind raced to understand what was happening.

“What on earth is this about?” I managed to whisper, and the officer replied that they had received a formal report regarding child abuse, unlawful retention of minors, and misappropriation of family funds. I actually let out a dry laugh because the accusation was so absurd that I thought my brain had finally snapped under the pressure.