I didn’t leave the TV on, and he’s going to be screaming.
When I got back to the hotel, our room had been cleared and emptied. MJ was gone.
I panicked.
Eventually, I went to a hotel employee, who told me that MJ had been screaming and a housekeeper entered the room to help him. They said CPS would be involved.
I grabbed MJ from them and yelled:
I am his mother. He’s been with me since he was three months old. He’s happy because of me. He’s thriving because of me. He’s my baby.
I told her I had stepped out because MJ had smeared poop on the walls, along with some other made-up excuses.
She gave us a new room and said we would sort it out with her manager the next day.
…
I woke up realizing that, at times, I am every mother in Little Fires Everywhere.
I’m Elena when other mothers don’t sacrifice and follow the rules of motherhood martyrdom.
I’m Mia, bucking the system and doing things my way.
I’m Bebe, overwhelmed to a breaking point, desperate for relief, and failed by an under-resourced system of parenting.
I’m Linda McCullough, fighting to get a world that prizes biology above all else to understand that my path to motherhood is not illegitimate. That my love for my child — and who I am to him — shouldn’t require defense. That I am his mother.
And I am hoping, like hell, that my child will find a way to forgive my mistakes the way Pearl forgives Mia’s, instead of being wounded forever by them, the way Izzy is by Elena’s.
