PART 2
I read that message three times.
Then I called the police.
Two officers came to Mrs. Varga’s kitchen. A woman from child protective services came an hour later. I showed them the dark house, the shut-off notice, the empty cereal box, and the message on the tablet.
The CPS worker read it and closed her eyes for a second.
“This is abandonment,” she said. “Not neglect. Abandonment.”
My grandmother arrived at 11:30 p.m. She walked into Mrs. Varga’s kitchen, saw the girls in their coats eating grilled cheese, and burst into tears.
Faith climbed into her lap like she’d known her forever.
The CPS worker placed the girls with my grandmother that night. Temporary emergency custody.
I was nineteen. I had to report back to the Army for advanced training in ten days. I couldn’t take care of two little girls alone. I hated that.
But I could do everything else.
I spent my leave in court. I testified at the emergency custody hearing in my uniform. I showed the judge the message, the shut-off notice, and the bank records showing every paycheck I’d sent “for the girls.”
My mother didn’t come to the hearing.
The police found her three weeks later in Daytona Beach, Florida, living in a motel with Rodney. She’d used my last two paychecks for the bus tickets.
She was charged with child abandonment and neglect of dependents. Rodney was charged too. Investigators found he’d been the one who pushed her to leave. “The girls are dead weight,” he’d texted her. “Your son can have them.”
My mother pleaded guilty in the spring. She lost custody permanently. My grandmother adopted Callie and Faith in June.
I changed my Army pay allotment that same week. Every month, two hundred dollars goes straight to my grandmother’s account now. The memo line still says “For the girls.”
My commanding officer heard what happened. He called me into his office on my first day back.
“Private Kaminski,” he said, “is there anything you need?”
“Just to get home for Christmas, sir.”
I got home for Christmas.
When I walked into my grandmother’s house in Indianapolis, it was warm. The lights were on. There was a tree in the window and real food on the table.
Callie ran to the door. Faith was right behind her.
Faith handed me a paper plate.
On it was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, cut into triangles, crooked and smeared.
“I made it myself,” she said. “For you. No ketchup.”
I sat down on the floor in my uniform and ate every bite.
Best meal I ever had.
THE END.
