When CPS Came (Again)
A few days later, my older sister and I got home from school and did what we always did—we turned on the TV and waited. We were alone.
There was a knock at the door.
I opened it without thinking. I only did because I knew our neighbor—one of my mom’s friends—was watching us from across the street. I assumed it was her, coming over to tell us something or check on us.
It wasn’t.
A woman stood on the porch in nice business clothes, holding a clipboard.
And a camera.
She said she was with CPS. She said she wanted to talk to me about what happened to my face.
My stomach dropped. I started crying immediately. I already knew I’d messed up just by opening the door. Now she knew we were home alone.
I told her the same thing I had told everyone else. I said my mom tripped and fell. I said it was an accident. I said I was fine.
That’s when our neighbor hurried across the street.
“Y’all done dropping your stuff off and getting snacks?” she called out casually, like this was all completely normal.
I caught on right away. “Yes,” I said quickly. “We just put our backpacks up. We were about to come over.”
She saved me from having to invent another lie.
I tried to slip past the CPS worker and off the porch, desperate to escape the situation. But she lifted her camera.
To my immediate horror and embarrassment, she said she needed to take pictures of my face.
I stood there while she took them.
Click. Click. Click.
I wanted to ask if I could see them. I wanted to know if it really looked as bad as everyone was acting like it did. Surely it wasn’t that bad.
But I didn’t ask.
I never asked questions back then. I just stood still and waited for it to be over.