You might remember Sandy’s Boy.
I’ve thought about him. A lot.
Today, someone mentioned him.
They’d been to see him. Sandy couldn’t make it to town to pick up a prescription, asked one of the neighbors to bring it to her.
The neighbor was greeted by “No Smoking – Oxygen on Premises” signs. And the house didn’t smell like smoke. It didn’t smell like someone was trying to mask the smell of smoke, either.
The house wasn’t spotless. But it wasn’t filthy. It was someone’s Home.
The baby was clean, and alert, and smiling. He’s only on oxygen for a bit each night. Developmentally, he’s right where he should be, adjusted for his prematurity.
Sandy’s eyes were clear. She’s tired. But she seems to have her shit together. She’s being monitored by social services. There are weekly mandatory drug tests.
Her boy was taken away after the calls were made. But she got him back.
And it seems like, for now, she’s determined to keep him.