Read Online Mummy Where Are You? (Revised Edition, new) by Jeanne D'Olivier - Free Book Online

and I hired a car and he drove me there.  M, I was told, was already waiting in one of the rooms.  I was taken by the same Social Worker who had been involved in his removal and another worker into a side room.   I handed her a copy of the transcript of my son’s evidence that he had given by interview to the police two years earlier - an ABE interview as it is termed - achieving best evidence - all of it ignored.    It was the only thing I had asked Dad to bring with him from my Court papers.  
                  I was barely thinking straight but I felt that if anyone read the words “Daddy put his winky in my bum and it hurt” they would realise why we had run.   I was wrong.  They accepted the information, but dismissed it.  They had already been influenced by Social Services back home into believing I had coached M to say these things.  It was a wicked lie, but the police and social services had protected the abuser and their lies had now crossed the ocean.  Once more I was powerless because one institution refused to believe a mother over the word of another institution.  There were so many more lies being told to them too, but as yet I was unaware of them.  I would find out soon enough.
                  They cautioned me not to get upset when I saw M.  How could I not?   They said they would stop the contact if I showed emotion.  I was supposed to see my son under these horrendous conditions and with these huge restrictions,   but I knew I had to see him and that I must do as they wished.  I had to muster whatever strength I had left to reassure him in any way I could.
                  They took me to a small room with a settee and a table in it.  There was a mirror on the wall.  I understood they would be sitting behind the two-way glass and watching and listening to our every word and move.   It was like being observed by the Gestapo.  I could only comply and I both dreaded and longed to see M. I did not know then that there would come a time when I would give anything for those precious hours behind the glass.  At that moment all I could think about was what I would face in that room - the devastation of my beautiful little boy.
                  He was brought in crying.  His little face red from sobbing and his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and tears.  He was shaking uncontrollably.  I wrapped him in my arms and rocked him.  I held his little frame tight against my chest.  He felt so thin. He told me he had not slept or eaten since he had been taken.  He said they were going to move him to another family that day, just when he had got used to where he was.   It was intolerable to see him in so much agony, but somehow I found the courage to bear it.  I told him to be brave.  To see it like summer camp.  It was the best I could do. 
                  I gave him a friendship band for his wrist with Camp Rock on it and put one on myself.  I told him I would get him back and to just be brave a little bit longer.  I promised I would do all in my power to bring him back to me.   He handed me a piece of paper with a heart on it and the words I love you Mummy please get me back. Tears threatened to pour in an avalanche down my burning cheeks.  I knew that the two workers behind the glass would stop the contact should I become emotional.  I willed myself not to cry, but seeing my son’s anguish was torture.  I wanted to wrap him in my arms and carry him out to safety – but we were in a locked room – locked from the outside – prisoners of a system that seemed no less cruel than the one from which he had fled. 
                  All I could do was keep telling him I would get him back and to be brave.  I had nothing else to offer him.  I held his little face between my hands and stared hard into his eyes – “ I will get you back.  Trust Mummy she will do everything she can.  I promise I will get