Writing That Scrapes the Heart

Writing That Scrapes the Heart

     Dark outside, raining, dinner finished and the phone rings.  My daughter, on the phone, informs me that she is in Lebanon at the hospital with a baby that she doesn't know what to do with.

     My daughter is a sophomore at Miami University and should be in her dorm studying or something.

     "What baby?" I ask. "And why are you at the hospital?"

     "Belinda went balistic and overdosed on crack and I am at the hospital with the baby and the social worker is talking at me about what to do with Savannah" said my torqued up daughter.

     "Ok, who is Belinda for starters?"  I quickly ask.

     "I have been travelling back and forth to Lebanon since I ran into her in a Subway there ?  She doesn't have any money, or a house, she's a crackhead, and she has a baby.  I just help her with the baby and get her food now and then."  is her breathless response.

     "But, you don't have any money either." I reply.

     "Could you just get Dad and come over here and help me?" she cried.

     "On the way."

     Driving over to the hospital my husband told me in no uncertain terms that we were not going to take a baby home.  As if that was my intention.

      At the hospital we were greeted by a desperate looking Alison holding a baby, Savannah.  With authority we asked to see the social worker that had spoken with Alison about the baby.

     A youngish woman with brown hair appeared and explained to us that Belinda had quite a history and they were going to have to go to trial and try to have Savannah removed from her care.  When I asked her why she had questioned Alison, she said that they just needed to get as much information about the events of the evening as they could.

      That evening I saw a side of my daughter that every mother of teen girls hopes to one day see.  She was caring and kind to the baby and Belinda and respectful to the social worker.  She had grown up.