I recognize the language they used on her immediately. I’ve heard versions of it my whole life. “One of my old foster parents had me chopping wood all day long, most days. He said idle hands were the devil’s workshop and a big strappin’ boy like me needed something to do to keep me out of trouble. He sold many a load that I’d cut without offering me a dime for all my hard work.”
Giving me a brief nod, she says, “They were careful. Everything they did lived in the gray areas. Nothing that looked illegal on paper. They called it chores, or volunteering as a family, orbuilding character.”
Her mouth twists. “We weren’t just cleaning up after ourselves. We maintained the house like unpaid staff. Every day there was something—scrubbing floors, deep-cleaning bathrooms, laundry that wasn’t ours. Saturdays were for the church. Top to bottom. Pews, bathrooms, offices. No skipping, no breaks.”
I glance over at my club brothers. Rick is shaking his head like he can’t believe it. Rigs looks just about ready to let loose some righteous anger on someone.
She exhales slowly. “We did yard work, sorted recycling for neighbors, washed cars. Sometimes our own, sometimes other people’s. They’d collect the money and tell us it was being saved for our future. College. Whatever sounded good that day.”
Rick’s hands curl into fists.
“If anyone questioned it,” she continues, “the punishments were framed asconsequences. Privileges were taken away. Except they weren’t privileges. Our social worker told us they were rights—meals, sleep, phone calls, visits with extended family.” Her voice drops. “Not that I ever had any family to visit.”
Rick stammers, “They starved you?”
“No,” she says quickly. “Not in ways anyone would write up as abuse. Missing meals sometimes wasn’t considered a violation. Going to bed hungry was called discipline. They were very clear about one thing.”
She looks down at her hands. “Food was earned.”
A hard female voice comes from the doorway. “Then your case manager was in dereliction of her duty.”
Rigs murmurs, “This is my old lady, Mattie. She runs the local Child Protective Services office here in Las Salinas. I asked her to stop by to help us get our heads around your situation.”
Natalie reaches out to Mattie, saying, “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Rigs told me you were raised in care, and your foster family has been asking you to come back home. From what I heard coming in, they were violating department policies.”
Rigs runs through what Natalie told us so far to bring his wife up to speed. Then Natalie adds another piece of information that seems like a poor reflection on the former foster parents.
“They told me that none of the other kids could do what I did. That the younger ones wouldn’t make it without me,” she says. “That the system would split them up. That bad things happen to kids who don’t have someone watching out for them.”
Her eyes lift to mine again. They used her love for them and her own conscience against her.
“I wanted to leave when I turned eighteen, but they guilted me into staying. And if I’m honest it was all I’d known. I had a payout to help me live independently but they took that. And made me earn my keep. I was too scared to go, but in the end I ran. Maybe that was a mistake, but I couldn’t take it anymore. And now…” she pauses. “They’ve been sending me text messages calling me ungrateful. Saying that I abandoned the other kids when they needed me the most. They’ve told me the kids are crying and asking for me. That if something happens, it’ll be because I left.”
Rick pushes back, “That’s manipulation. That’s mental abuse.”
She nods like she already knows. “I know what it is,” she says quietly. “Knowing doesn’t ease my guilt. It’s true that the kids are safer and happier when I’m taking care of them.”
The room falls silent as her words sink in.
Mattie speaks up. “If this family were located in my jurisdiction, I’d investigate them in a heartbeat. Since they’re not, I’ll have to link with their local CPS office and ask them to look into the situation. I might not be at liberty to talk to you about the case, but I’ll do my best to make sure those children are safe.”
Natalie immediately tears up. “Anything that you can do for them, I’d really appreciate.”
“I’m glad this was brought to my attention. You said they texted you? We can use that as evidence.”
Natalie immediately reaches into her pocket, digs her phone out, and holds it out for Mattie to check.
“Can I take this?” Mattie asks.
“Sure,” Natalie says.
“We’ll get it back to you ASAP.”
“Thanks for helping. I reported this stuff to my case worker in the past, but nothing came of it, except me missing dinner for a week and not being able to go to the library for six months.”
Mattie frowns. “I’ll be sure to make a note of that. Are your social worker’s name and number in your phone?”
