October 10, 2025

For six years, Bennett has been beside me at every Thanksgiving table.

From the moment he was born, every holiday, every milestone, every hospital stay — we’ve faced it all together. Even when he was too little to eat the food, he’d sit in his highchair next to me, tapping his spoon and smiling at the sound of laughter. He’d thank the turkey for “doing a good job” and tell me he was thankful for “home.”

This year, for the first time in his life, he won’t be home.

Bennett is six now — bright, funny, and endlessly curious.

He’s been through more in six years than most adults face in a lifetime — hospital stays, surgeries, endless medical tests — and still, he finds joy.

He’s the bravest person I know.

Bennett was taken from me while I was in the hospital, recovering from serious complications. The very system that was supposed to support our family instead chose separation over care. Since then, my son has been away — and no amount of logic can touch the ache of that truth.

And that’s what I keep coming back to. Home.

Home isn’t walls or furniture — it’s where he feels safe, loved, and understood. It’s where I know how to read every signal, soothe every pain, and make every moment feel okay again. This year, that home is missing its heart.

So while the world celebrates gratitude today, I’m holding onto something deeper — hope. Hope that Bennett and I will be together again soon. Hope that next year, he’ll be here at the table, telling me stories about his “cargo train adventures.” Hope that this empty chair is only temporary.

If you’re lucky enough to have your child in your arms this Thanksgiving, hold them tight — tighter than you think you need to. Kiss their forehead, listen to their stories, even the ones that don’t make sense. Those small, ordinary moments are everything.

Because when you’ve spent six years building a life around love, and that love is taken from your arms, every heartbeat is a prayer to bring it home again.