The Life We Never Got to Live

By Alexis Landrum

There are milestones parents expect to witness.

First smiles.

First words.

First steps.

The first time their child reaches for them when they’re scared.

The first scraped knee.

The first birthday candle.

The first day of school.

Most parents don’t realize how much these moments matter until they happen.

Some of us realize how much they matter because they don’t.

When a child is separated from their family, people often focus on court orders, case plans, reports, and legal proceedings. The conversation becomes about paperwork.

What gets lost is the life happening between the pages.

Every day a child grows.

Every day a child changes.

Every day there are moments that can never be recreated.

A first word doesn’t happen twice.

A first step doesn’t happen twice.

A first birthday only comes once.

Those moments become memories for someone. The question is who gets to keep them.

I often wonder what Everleigh likes now.

• What makes her laugh.
• Whether she has a favorite stuffed animal.
• Whether she likes music.
• Whether she dances when she hears a song she loves.
• Whether she is stubborn like me.
• Whether she wrinkles her nose when she’s concentrating.
• Whether she knows how many people think about her every single day.

These aren’t legal questions. They’re the ordinary questions parents ask because they love their children.

The public often sees family separation as a single event.

A hearing.

A removal.

A final order.

But separation isn’t a single moment.

It’s a collection of thousands of missed moments.

It’s birthdays spent apart.

Holidays spent wondering.

Photographs never taken.

Stories never shared.

Memories created somewhere else.

The hardest thing isn’t only missing a child.

It’s missing the opportunity to know who they are becoming. Children don’t pause while adults sort out complicated situations.

• They keep growing.
• They keep learning.
• They keep becoming themselves.

And every day apart is a page added to a story you weren’t allowed to read.

One day, I hope Everleigh knows that she was never forgotten.

Not for a day.

Not for a moment.

Not during the difficult times.

Not during the quiet times.

Not when the world moved on.

Because love doesn’t disappear when access disappears.

Love doesn’t end because a document says it should. Love doesn’t stop because circumstances become complicated.

A parent’s love continues through silence.

Through distance.

Through uncertainty.

Through years.

And if there is one thing I hope Everleigh understands someday, it is this

You were always worth fighting for.
You were always loved. 
And there was never a day when someone wasn’t wondering who you were becoming.