[ WP ] Tug at my heartstrings . Make me cry .

She calls me “ Momma ”. She cries when I go to school, watching with hazel eyes that seem to catch every bit of light in the room. When the bus stops in front of our little house at the end of the street, she dashes madly out the door to meet me, smiling toothily and pulling at my shirt. My sister is jealous. She wants the baby to hug her, to seek out her room when there are monsters in the closet and bad guys in the shadows. Almost every morning, I wake up to her tiny fingers tangled in my hair. She breathes deeply in her sleep, more deeply than I ever thought a toddler's lungs could. And last week, on my tenth birthday, the baby ate two whole pieces of cake, falling asleep with frosting beneath her fingers and sprinkles in her curly hair. She smelt like birthdays. 
 I love her, my little baby, my little knot fairy. When sister was a baby, she was so quiet that sometimes I'd sleep by her crib so that I could wake up every once in awhile to make sure she was okay. She was scary quiet. The baby is loud, garbling word fragments and tearing across the house in search of cookies and mayhem. Mom and Dad were so mad when baby figured out how to open the fridge. She sent eggs flying and slide around the kitchen tiles. I found it impossible to be mad at her. She just looked to sweet and silly with egg shells in her hair. 
 I do n't know what a “ social worker ” is. Mom wo n't tell me. She just keeps saying Baby has to go home. Baby does n't understand either, but she starts crying the moment I do. I'm hugging her. “ Mom, she is home! This is her home! We're her family! ” 
 “ Momma! Momma! ” Her tiny fists are in my hair, as if to say she was n't going anywhere with me. My mom's face is sad and hard at the same time. “ Sweetie, we're just her foster family. Her real Momma is waiting for her to come home. Her mommy was sick, but now she's better and she just wants her little girl home. ” 
 My voice sounds tiny, a billion miles away. “ But I'm her Momma. ” 
 When Baby's asleep that night, I hear my Mom talking on the phone, saying we'll say our goodbyes in the morning. I find a shoebox in my closet. In goes her favorite sing-a-long VHS tape. The picture book I've had since I was a baby. A t-shirt of mine that she wears when I'm at sleepovers and she misses me. A coloring book that we never finished. And a letter. 
 Dear Crissy's Mom, 
 We do n't know how she escapes her room every night, but she does. It's okay, she'll probably just go to your bed. Her hair gets knotted up badly, and she plays with other people's hair so the same thing happens to them. It helps when brushing her hair to tell her about the little knot fairies that dances and had parties on top of her head all night. She'll be too busy giggling to cry. 
 I pretended to be Crissy's mom while you were getting better, but I know she needs a real Momma, not a pretend one. Is it okay to be sad, though, right? Because I'm sad. I'm going to miss her. Babies come to our house all the time, but Crissy was the first one to make me feel like I was helping, like I was doing something. She's special. As her real Momma, I know you must love her a billion times more than I do. I know she loves you too. 
 Aggy Washington, Age 10 
 A decade later, reminiscing with my mother, I bring up Crissy. How cute she was with sprinkles and egg shells in her hair. My mother does n't make eye contact. By now, I've learned about social workers and the system. Knowledge and ten years of distance does not stop my heart from breaking when I hear that Crissy's mom overdosed less than six months after regaining custody. The social worker had called us, asking if we could take Crissy in until they found a more permanent living arrangement. 
 By then, we'd already moved halfway across the country. We never heard anything about Crissy again.
