Your greatest contribution may not be something you do but someone you raise.
~Author Unknown

I can still picture the day seven years ago when Mary Ellen grabbed my hand and said, “Grandma, don’t ever leave me.” She followed me around the house, never letting me out of her sight. When I sat, she sat in my lap. Her parents were preoccupied with an illness my husband and I had yet to acknowledge for what it was, and she had asked to come home with us. She was two years old.

The situation in her home got better after a time, so she went back.

Three years later, my husband and I became her legal guardians. So, we gave up the fun of being grandparents and took on the hard job of parenting a child who was hurting in ways I’ve never known. A child who was angry because her family was torn apart. A child who couldn’t understand why. A child who had to grow up too fast.

She, of course, didn’t remember the earlier time. But she did remember loving her parents. She remembered that they loved her. So, she asked, “Why must I live with you? Why can’t Mommy and Daddy take care of me?” And always, “When can I go home?”

The answers never sounded complete or adequate. “Mommy and Daddy are sick because they put something in their bodies that isn’t good for them. It keeps them from making good decisions that keep you safe.”

“When will they get well?”

“I don’t know. They’re working on it.”

Then tears, always tears. Great sobs for which there was little comfort.

Twice that first year, I saw her acting out a story. Both times, she was running around, obviously taking care of a bad situation. When I asked what she was doing, she told me her parents’ house was on fire. She needed to rescue them and put out the flames. My heart hurt for her. I wanted so badly to tell her that her parents were fine, that they were well on their way to recovery, and she would be going home soon. But I knew none of that was a guarantee and that false hope was worse than no hope.

The three of us were very fortunate to have great support. Her school counselor assured her that she wasn’t the only child in her situation. Her teachers stayed in close touch with us and always insisted she work hard and follow the rules. Her principal wrote notes of encouragement on her classwork.

Our friends at church knew her name. They talked to her and listened to her responses. Once, we saw her religious-education teacher at the grocery store. Two days later, Mary Ellen had a note from Miss Maisie saying how nice it was to see her at the store. Mary Ellen was thrilled!

She became involved in Brownies, art lessons, and sports — finally settling on soccer. Her PE teacher told me she held her own against four boys at recess. There was probably something therapeutic in kicking a ball and running.

But, in some respects, every day seemed like what Mary Ellen called “opposite day.” Papa and I helped with homework, listened to her read, hosted overnights, and attended kids’ birthday parties — all the things we had done before as parents.

Along the way, she was told that I wasn’t her real grandmother. It’s true, sort of. Her father’s my stepson. It’s sometimes hard to put all the branches on a family tree. So, I asked her if she loved me. She said yes. I told her that I loved her, too. And if we chose to be grandmother and granddaughter, we could be. That works for both of us.

After a couple of years, she gave me a great gift. She said, “Grandma, I would rather live with my parents, but I’m happy.” That made me happy, too.

Someday, Mary Ellen will realize that she is one of the fortunate children who has been removed from her home. Her parents made a mistake, but through everything they loved her — loved her enough to get well.

After three and a half years, Mary Ellen went home. There will no doubt be hard times ahead. Parenting isn’t easy for anyone, but her family has the love and support of an extended family and many friends.

After loading her bicycle into her dad’s car, my husband walked inside and said, “Now we can be old.” And grandparents — the kind who can play and give too much candy and send her home.

A friend asked me if I ever regretted agreeing to take custody of her. Not for a minute.

As I write this, I am looking at a handwritten note on a background of geometric shapes colored with pink and orange pencils and taped to the bookshelf above my computer. It was penned by a seven-year-old. It reads: “Hi, I just wanted to say ‘I love you’ and thank you for everything. With love, Mary Ellen.”

Regrets? Not for a minute.

— Vicki Schoen —