Angst. Roughly based on The Tide by The Spill Canvas.
Social Services became aware of the neglect on October 6th. They monitored his situation. They questioned him in school.
When it all started, he didn't understand. 'Where's your mother?' someone would ask. He'd reply: In her bedroom, ma'am.
'Where's your father?' They'd ask. He'd say: He's gone, sir, I don't know where he is. Momma is sad, though. I don't think he's coming back, sir.
'When's the last time you ate, baby boy?' His neighbor Missy was a kind old woman; kind, but nosy. He'd say: Last night, ma'am, I had a cup of cereal. And she'd always reply, 'well, you're too skinny, little boys your age should eat more.' He never told her that the cereal was stolen, and it had to last two weeks.
And then they started telling him about bad things like neglect and malnutrition and foster homes. He didn't want to leave. He loved his mother.
Every day, after another talk from a police officer, Mike Ross, age seven, would come home and sit in front of his mother's door, crying and begging her to get up. Begging her to come out of her room. To love him. Every night, he'd sit there until 6:30pm, when he'd get up and make himself eat something. Bread crusts. Old crackers. (He never could have any more than that, but he never was hungry enough to eat much, anyway.) And then he'd take his bookbag, full of library books nice teachers got him, and he'd read to his to mother through the door. He'd do his homework, and then he'd write her letters. He'd slide them underneath the door hoping that one day, his words would make her understand. They never did. She never came out of her room.
Mike Ross was taken away from his mother, Mary Ann Ross, on November 16th. It happened quietly, in the middle of the day. The sun was shining, and his eyes were full of tears. His mother didn't say goodbye.