Birthdays only come once a year.

They’re celebrated differently by everyone. Some throw parties. Some spend them quietly. But no matter how it looks, there’s one thing most of us expect: to be surrounded by love, family, and the people who’ve watched us grow.

For me, birthdays were everything.

The cake didn’t matter. The gifts never had to be expensive. What mattered was the feeling: being seen, hugged, remembered. My family always made sure of that.

But the year I turned fifteen , my birthday never came.

At least, not the way I’d imagined it.

It was just a few days before. My mom had already started prepping dinner, my favorite. My grandmother had bought me a necklace. My little brother kept trying to guess what the surprise was. I went to bed smiling.

I woke up to strangers in our living room.

The state had come.

Child Protective Services.

They said there was a report.

They said I couldn’t stay.

They didn’t explain.

They didn’t ask what I wanted.

They just handed my mom a form and handed me a bag.

No bruises. No danger. No evidence.

Just someone’s accusation.

And a system that always assumes the worst.

I didn’t get to finish school that day.

I didn’t get to say goodbye to my friends.

I didn’t even get to hug my mom for longer than a few seconds before they pulled me away.

They told me it was temporary.

It wasn’t.

They said it was for my own good.

But nothing about where I ended up felt good.

There was no birthday dinner that week.

No candlelit cake.

Just a new house with strange adults and unfamiliar rules.

Just a room with nothing that smelled like home.

Just me, counting the days until I could go back.

The day of my birthday, someone remembered. Barely.

They gave me a cupcake and a new set of pajamas. I said thank you.

But all I really wanted was my family.

I’m older now.

And while the bruises were never on my skin, they left them anyway.

On my memories.

On the idea that childhood was supposed to feel safe.

I never got my fifteenth birthday back.

And even though the accusations were later proven false, no apology came.

No one rushed to undo the damage.

My case just sat, like so many others.

Today begins Stolen Children’s Month.

And this is what being stolen actually looks like:

• A child taken days before a birthday
• A family left confused and powerless
• A court case that drags on even after the lies unravel

There are thousands like me.

Children were shuffled from home to home because someone “wasn’t sure.”

Because poverty looked too much like neglect.

Because a parent raised their voice.

Because a child was disciplined and guided out of love.

Because the system is built to remove first and ask questions later.

If you’re one of us, I see you.

If you’re still fighting, I believe you.

And if you still wonder why no one stopped it, know that the silence is part of the design.

This isn’t justice.

It’s generational trauma, dressed in legal process.

And it starts when they take us before the candles are ever lit.

Signed,

A family shattered. A daughter stolen.