Who knew that walking the liquid-hot cement to the black mailbox, standing high in the bramble of honeysuckle that wrapped itself around the aged post, was going to throw my whole world into a black abyss with no hope of ascending? I retrieved that most evil letter, quickly skimmed over it seeing my younger kids’ names and the words "custody granted to petitioner." I think of pinching my arm to see if I could wake from this awful scene, but just as I found the skin of my arm to be unseemly cold on that cloudless, hot, summer day, I found that my nightmare had no end in sight.

The thick, government, white envelope fell from my unclenched fingers while I collapsed downward into my darkest nightmare. All the while, the sun was reflecting off the molding pool in slivers of strange tints of greens and blues, and the mockingbirds called out shrilly to each other. The smell of freshly-cut grass swam sweetly as it mingled with the warm scent of honeysuckle. As the fiery-hot Georgia sun baked the red clay driveway, I found myself jerked into a raging storm which would not subside.

I received the hardest punch to my gut, which caused my eyes to sting with tears of regret. Regret that I ever put my trust in him, again, after everything he put the kids and me through. I wanted my kids to know their father, to spend time with him, especially since Christian was starting school in the fall. I agreed that Christian and Sierra should spend the summer with their dad. I buckled them in and kissed them both. They smelled of Ivory soap, fresh out of their last bath overseen by their mother. Their smiling faces full of trust in the adults standing by the car. I was a fool for believing that they will return home on the agreed date. A fool for not putting my foot down when the excuses began to rain down as the agreed upon date drew near.

With the dry air all around me, I could not catch my breath, except to suffocate on the smell of overturned dirt, heated by the burning sun. My mind thundered with my angry response which was tainted with murderous thoughts. How could he have done that to my precious babies? How could he do that to me? I wanted to scream at the sun and birds for they were far too happy to suit this day. I cry for days, cloaked in my own misery, barricaded in my room with Sierra’s pillow and Christian’s stuffed dog. It was six months before I could pack away their clothes and toys. It took nearly a year of drowning my sorrows in alcohol and writing before my deep depression subsided.

This moment permeates all others; it never ends as I replay it over and over. I tell myself all the ways this could have been prevented. Every thought acts as a lash to my heart. Every memory is like a volt of electricity sent straight to my mind. I punish myself by pointing the finger at myself. If I had not wanted to party with friends through the summer, I might still have my younger kids. Guilt is a heavy baggage to carry around. I lay awake at night reliving every hug, laugh, kiss, boo-boo, and every tear. I snatch pictures from Facebook when I can. A gambit of questions runs like quicksilver. How are they? What do they like to do? Do they like school? Do they remember me? Will I ever be able to tell them my side of the story? Are they happy? And the most important question, do they know I love them so much that it hurts to where I can't breathe? For ever in my mind "the little ones" they were dubbed, my heart wouldn't let me say their names because my ears knew I would release a floodgate.

As I struggled to remain calm, I remembered my oldest son was nearby absorbed in a sheen of sweat from playing soccer. He ran to my side; his blonde hair bouncing on this windless day as he picked up speed to catch me from tumbling to the dry, hard earth beneath me. When he wrestled that malicious letter from my desperate grip, I will never forget the tears threatening to lose themselves down his dirt-streaked, frowning face. I laid my hand upon his trembling shoulder and he crashed into my numb arms. There we both stood encumbered by this nightmare as the red clay reflected the hot sun onto our bodies. The locusts buzzed softly in the background, lending their voices to our sadness and outrage on this cruel summer day.

I haven't seen or talked to Christian or Sierra since they were four and three years old. Christian turned 15 in July and Sierra will be 14 in August. Not a day has passed by that they are not in my thoughts. Engraved on my heart are the memories of their laughter and smiles as they played with their older brother. I will never forget Sierra putting my mom's dentures in her mouth, while sitting at the cherry wood dinner table. Christian's laughter still echos through my head.

All I can hope for is that they are happy and healthy, and that one day they will seek us out and allow their brother and me to be a part of their lives. They are loved ferociously and missed terribly! I still sleep with Sierra's purple Tinkerbell pillow; it's been stuffed and sewn a few times, but it's the small things that connect us to those we miss.