For seven years, I have loved this boy more than anything in this world.

He came home to me on May 7. No finding of abuse. No finding of harm. The reason he was ever taken from me in the first place? I asked for support services.

Since then, I’ve been quietly doing everything a court order would require of me, without one. No formal status. No protections. Just showing up, every single day, for a child who decided, since coming home, that he wants to go by a new name: Rocky.

Meanwhile, the woman who shows up for him too, his behaviour interventionist, has worked for over two months and been paid exactly once. She’s borrowed money from family just to keep gas in her tank to get to him.

This isn’t a story about blame. It’s a story about what falls through the cracks while paperwork stalls and court dates sit months away, and about a mother who has never stopped advocating for her son, not for one single day.

I wrote a letter today.