News of the investigation hit CPS like a stone dropped into still water—
quiet at first, then rippling into chaos.
The moment the foster home was confronted, the system woke up.
Not with concern.
Not with compassion.
But with fear.
Because if the truth came out…
if the abuse was real…
if the girls had been mistreated under their watch…
it wouldn't just be the foster parents in trouble.
It would be the entire chain.
The worker.
The supervisor.
The office.
The district.
So instead of protecting the children,
they did what scared systems always do—
they panicked.
And then they tried to twist the story.
---
It started with a sudden phone call.
Unknown number.
No voicemail.
Then another.
And another.
Then finally—
my assigned worker's number.
I answered.
"Kristen," she said too politely, too quickly.
"We need to clarify some details from your recent visit."
My chest tightened with anger.
"No," I said calmly. "You need to clarify why my daughters reported trauma while they were in your care."
She stuttered.
"W-well—that's not what our notes reflect."
Of course not.
Their notes never reflected the truth.
She continued, "It seems there may have been… misunderstandings. Children often misinterpret things—"
I cut her off.
"My children don't misinterpret fear."
Silence.
She wasn't expecting this version of me.
---
Within an hour, the supervisor emailed me—
a long, formal message dripping with fake concern and subtle threats.
"Kristen, we take all allegations very seriously,
however we have concerns that the children's statements may have been influenced…"
Influenced.
There it was.
Their favorite excuse.
Their shield.
Their go-to lie.
They were accusing me of planting ideas in my daughters' heads.
Me.
The mother they kept away.
The mother they silenced.
The mother they refused to listen to.
I read the email twice.
My hands didn't shake.
Not this time.
Then I forwarded it straight to my lawyer.
His response came back in less than five minutes:
"They're scared. Don't reply. I'll handle this."
---
By noon, CPS tried a new angle.
They scheduled a "team meeting."
Emergency.
Mandatory.
Conveniently timed—
right after the foster home investigation and before the report was filed.
They wanted to get ahead of the story.
Rewrite the narrative.
Paint my daughters as confused.
Paint me as manipulative.
Paint themselves as victims of a "miscommunication."
But when I walked into that meeting—
I didn't walk in alone.
My lawyer walked in beside me, briefcase in hand, eyes sharp.
You could feel the temperature of the room drop.
The supervisor cleared her throat and began with her rehearsed lie:
"We're concerned the children may have been coached—"
My lawyer held up a hand.
"Stop. Right there."
Everyone froze.
"You will not," he said slowly, "accuse a mother of manipulation while simultaneously ignoring the findings of Licensing."
The worker swallowed.
The supervisor turned red.
He continued, voice calm but lethal:
"Two investigators were at that foster home this morning.
They found exactly the issues the children described.
Your attempt to reframe this is not only inappropriate—
it is dangerous."
He slid printed copies of the statutes across the table.
"Emotional abuse.
Unsafe environment.
Improper discipline.
Violation of placement standards."
He placed a final paper on top.
"And obstruction."
CPS went silent.
---
The supervisor tried to recover.
"Well, we need to consider all sides—"
"No," my lawyer said.
"You need to consider the children."
Then he leaned back, folding his hands.
"And while you're doing that, we will be filing a formal complaint against this office."
The worker's face drained of color.
The supervisor's hands shook.
I sat there watching them crumble the same way they once watched me break—
disconnected, cold, almost entertained.
Except I didn't take pleasure in it.
I took purpose from it.
This wasn't revenge.
This was protection.
This was justice.
This was a mother refusing to let the system rewrite her daughters' pain.
---
When the meeting ended, my lawyer packed his papers and said quietly,
"They're losing control of the narrative, Kristen. And they know it."
I exhaled slowly.
"They tried to twist my story."
"They did," he said.
"But you didn't let them."
We walked out together, and for the first time, CPS didn't watch me leave like I was the problem.
They watched me leave like I was the threat.
And this time?
I was.