This is a story about impossible things. Pull up a seat and get yourself comfy. Join me on a journey through my memories. Then, after reading, come to your own conclusion about what is possible.

Ready? Let’s go…

They say home is where your heart is. But honestly, for a very long time, I thought home was just a place where my heart seemed to always be broken.

My defiance towards the cards I was dealt early in life began during my teen years. Life was pretty hard then and I didn’t understand why. It often felt unfair. Hopeless.

But that’s the way it goes sometimes, yes? We just have to roll with the punches. We get stronger as we go, or so they say. I would like to think that I am strong. But the truth is, I get scared. A lot. I think about a verse about being strong even in weakness. And I just keep going…

Speaking of being afraid, I remember looking back to when I was alone and scared. I was standing at the door of the only real home I’d ever known, my grandfathers home. Once again I was being forced to leave against my will. An understanding pressed heavily on my chest. And with a backpack slung over one shoulder and my grandfather’s Bible pressed tightly against my heart, I lingered on the front porch of that old house not wanting to leave. My heart hurt. As I hesitated to step away, I had begun to grasp a harsh truth. Nothing in this world was permanent. Even those meant to love you, those you think will always be by your side, can go, leaving you utterly alone. Yet, despite this dawning sense of loneliness, even with fear fluttering in my chest, I remember clinging to a flicker of hope, a comforting denial. I knew I wasn’t all alone, even if it felt like it. I promised myself that no matter what happened this would always be MY home, and one day I would return. Defiantly, I lifted my chin, trying to be brave, but I was still such a child really. Child or not, I understood then the soul tie that bound me there. I felt the unbreakable bond I shared with my little sister and this home. Nobody can ever take a soul tie away, no matter how hard they try. I looked around before walking away. The white paint on the front porch was fading, peeling away in places, and like layers of my life, it was exposing what was underneath.

Hi, I’m Dawn. Back then, I was just a teenager struggling with a broken heart and a spirit simmering with determination. And at the center of this story is my baby sister, Haven. A little girl who couldn’t even tie her own shoes or form the words to speak, but one day simply vanished from inside her bedroom, a bedroom locked from the outside.

Weird part? Only one key could open her room, a key only our mother possessed. She kept my sister locked up like some animal, and I hated her for it. Haven, my sweet baby sister, with baby blonde hair and big green eyes, is autistic. My mother, unwilling or incapable of dealing with the burden of raising her, kept Haven locked away as much as possible.

Now, things take a dark turn here in my memories. I apologize in advance. This story leads to her disappearance from our mother’s home, a place tainted by drugs and abuse, and where my mother was also discovered murdered.

Yeah, I get it. I just threw a lot at you. I do that sometimes. Some say it’s a trauma response, this sharing stories from my past, but I say it’s just letting bad things go so I can accept the good to come. And I desperately want to let my ugly past go.

Let’s rewind a bit. When I was fifteen and Haven was only four, Mom kicked me out. My refuge became my grandfather’s home, a quaint old house across town with a little land that I would explore and where I was safe at last. This is the home with the big front porch with peeling paint I spoke about earlier, a place that I would always long to be. It was a stark contrast to my mother’s chaotic household, but even so, while living there I was haunted by the fact that I was incapable of taking my baby sister with me, and I felt powerless. Mom kicked me out and Haven was left to fend for herself. I often had nightmares about it.

I loved Haven fiercely, but did my Mom? Maybe there was a capacity for love buried somewhere in her heart, but I’ve learned to doubt that over the years. Somewhere down the road of life something inside of her broke, leaving only destruction in its wake. My sister and I paid the price. The cost of living with a broken mother often involved bruises and heavy punishment.

I still recall the day I was forced to leave mom’s house before going to live with Grandpa. The impact of the departure burned into my memory forever. Haven’s sweet tear-streaked face, her wispy blonde hair framing those big, innocent eyes that wouldn’t or couldn’t meet anyone’s gaze, clad in a white nightgown that hung on her frail frame. She was smeared with purple ink, like a tiny little artist in rebellion. With self-written words sprawled across her arms and legs, she was trying to speak to anyone who would listen, in her very own way.

At just four, Haven couldn’t speak, but she could read. That day, I was stunned to discover she had also learned to write. The purple marks were all over the place, on her skin, on her bedspread, on the walls, and even scrawled on the nightstand beside her twin bed. These three words:

Let Me Out

Scrawled all over, in her favorite color, almost everywhere. Haven had written those words, and I was shocked.

And my mother? She was furious. After school that day, I walked in the house to find my little sister sobbing, while Mom loomed over her, wielding a belt in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. Smoke swirled in the air around her head as her eyes flashed, she was hopped up on who knows what? Mom screamed accusations at me, blaming me for whatever paranoid, volcanic thoughts had erupted inside her drug-riddled brain.

In her madness, she accused me of letting Haven out before I left for school, and began advancing on me with the belt. But I knew the truth. I couldn’t have let Haven out even if I tried. The key to my sister’s prison was always around Mom’s neck, like a twisted symbol of her sick control. I couldn’t open that door unless I was willing to drill a hole through the lock or break the door down (believe me I had often dreamed about doing just that) but the lock and door were still completely intact. Deep down I think mother understood that I couldn’t have opened Haven’s door, and even under the influence of whatever mind altering substance she was on that day, I think the not knowing how Haven escaped her room terrified my mother. Even in her impaired state, there seemed to be a flicker of fear at the thought of Haven’s unexplained appearance outside of her bedroom.

Having a crazy mom is one thing, but having a scared, crazy, drug addicted mom is a different ball game. I sincerely hope that you have never had to endure the pain and unpredictability of a parent addicted to drugs, but if you have, my heart is with you. At times it’s like living in a war zone, and the only thing I could think about was survival. Where could I hide? Where could I find food? Where could my mind go to escape whatever I couldn’t actually run from?

I don’t remember much from that chaotic day, but they say you see red when you’re angry. For me, it was all about purple. My baby sister’s scribbles were everywhere! Her sweet little face and nightgown smeared with her desperate plea. All I felt was a deep, simmering frustration boiling within me and I was so sick and tired of living like this. Something inside of me snapped, and I was no longer scared.

I was done.

I know my mom and I fought like wild dogs, and her latest boyfriend, some loser guy who decided to step in, tried to intervene. I ended up with a busted lip, a few more bruises, yet victoriously clutching the belt she had just used to hurt Haven and then turned on me. That moment is burned into my memory, where I was no longer a scared little girl, running. It was a defining moment where I realized I didn’t have to accept life like this. I could fight back, and I have been fighting ever since.

So after mom’s boyfriend got involved, I was thrown out on the front porch like a bag of trash. He was much stronger than me, but I fought like hell, a newfound confidence inside of me, and years of abuse fueled a rage I didn’t know even existed. No more would I cower when someone hit me, or avert my eyes when I sensed a predator. I would stand my ground the best that my petite frame would allow, and I would be safe. Deep down, I knew it. I finally knew what peace was in the middle of turmoil. Grandpa, a war veteran had often talked to me about this type of peace.

At any rate, brave teenager or not, I was told to never come back. Mom kicked me out. I took off with my backpack and the clothes on my back. I went to the only safe place I really knew, swearing to myself that the only day I would ever come back to mom’s house would be the day I would take my baby sister home with me. That promise to myself turned into my one and only plan, my only real focus. Grandpa’s house then became my home. My safe place, my sanctuary, marred only by the fact that Haven was not with us. A monthly disability check from the government for Haven made sure mom wouldn’t let her go. She needed that money to feed her addictions.

My grandfather let me in with an open heart and open arms and together we often prayed for my sister. Even as age slowed his step, his voice boomed with conviction, telling me often that God would bring Haven home to us safely. My grandfather could hardly get around anymore, yet his faith was so strong and my memories are full of his daily prayer that both my sister and I would one day be safe and sound and living in his home.

But without Haven, the peace I often felt there was troubled at night. I had nightmares, and I worried constantly about what was happening to her.

Despite the nightmares I understood the blessing of being free from the chaos of drugs and the unsettling characters my mom dated. No more beatings or harsh names, no more creepy guys eyeballing me or trying to touch me. I stepped into a world that overflowed with a quiet calm, where the air was a refreshing departure from the drugs, whiskey, and despair of addiction. I could finally breathe and my world smelled like sunshine.

Do you know what sunshine smells like? Sunshine smells like a spring day, or the air right after it finishes raining. Like whiffs of grandpa’s peppermint candy or his coffee brewing. Like warmth and safety. Truthfully, sunshine smells like happiness. I could go on and on, but the smells I remember at my grandfather’s were wonderful, loving and pure. Happy is feeling protected. I was safe, filling up on all that sunshine, preparing for the day I could share safety and sunshine with Haven.

You might be curious about whether Social Services ever got involved in our situation? Oh, they sure did. Unfortunately, as is often the case for families like mine, nothing ever changed. My mother had this manipulative ability to charm her way through life, deceiving everyone around her, and Haven’s safety was caught in a web of lies. A drug addict can pull off some Oscar worthy performances, especially after years of practice in the art of deception. So there we were, waiting for the state to send someone to the house to check on Haven, but I knew the drill. The case worker would walk in, clipboard in hand, asking questions as if she were on a mission, jotting down notes, but ultimately leaving without a clue about what was really happening behind closed doors. It felt like being trapped in a never ending cycle of hope and disappointment, which is the story of my entire childhood.

Mom was a master at keeping up appearances, with no visible bruises and a home that looked presentable enough. You wouldn’t believe how certain drugs can turn people into meticulous housekeepers. It’s a horrible reality, but it is the truth. A lot of addicts learn to keep up appearances. My mother was one of the best.

I felt blessed to be away from her. For two beautiful, wonderful years, I got to live with Grandpa. It is strange to wrestle with happiness and guilt at the same time, but thoughts of freeing Haven kept me going. Finishing high school, I worked hard at saving all my money from part time jobs before Grandpa ended up having a stroke and leaving me alone, again.

Once more, I found myself gripped by fear and loneliness after my mother sold his house out from under me. I was homeless again, but this time, I had to fend for myself. I was determined to let go of the past and look ahead, vowing to keep fighting. So fight I did, and I was making wonderful progress leaving memories of abuse behind while I looked ahead to a better future. That is, until the days after Haven’s mysterious disappearance, when I reluctantly found myself back in my mother’s horrible house, a place I hadn’t stepped foot in for five long years. I had been working hard to reclaim Haven, juggling two or sometimes three jobs, saving every single penny that I could.

It had felt like I was finally making headway, and in a surprising twist of fate, I had just moved into the very first home I could call my own: a fixer-upper with peeling paint on the front porch that had once brimmed with my only good memories. Imagine my joy when while looking to buy a home I discovered that my grandfather’s old house was for sale?

I don’t believe in coincidences, do you?

Perhaps it’s freedom after such a horrible childhood that makes me see it this way, but I firmly believe in blessings. With a heartfelt prayer, I made an optimistic offer, and to my delight, it was accepted. I was back in the only place that had ever truly felt like home, the one home I always longed for. Yes, it needed work, but I was more than ready for that. Hard work never had scared me, it fueled me.

I don’t think you could ever tell me that this good fortune wasn’t a God thing. Nothing you could say about fate or coincidence could change my mind.

And there’s even more magic to this story….

There I was needing God more than ever. Back at the house I had vowed never to return to, my mother’s house, talking to the police about death and the unsettling disappearance of Haven. They said Mom had been murdered by a boyfriend, and as cold as it may sound, I had felt absolutely nothing inside regarding her death. How could I mourn a mother who had never truly been a mother? I couldn’t find it in me to summon any grief for her at all.

Maybe I am broken too. Maybe not. Make your own decision, but I have zero guilt.

Returning to the house where I was raised by my now deceased mother, I was allowed to view Haven’s room. The investigation was underway, and I suppose the police were hopeful that something I saw might lead to the safe return of my sister. My heart pounded in my chest as I stepped into Haven’s room, the weight of fear and dread hanging in the air around me. Officer Murphy had filled me in on what little they could share, but nothing prepared me for that moment. As I glanced down, tears stung my eyes, and my gaze locked onto the bloody footprints that marred the faded hardwood floor beside Haven’s bed. Anger surged through me at the thought of my sister maybe witnessing our mother’s murder. A chill went down my spine, a sick wave of worry for her safety overwhelming me.

This space felt hauntingly stagnant, devoid of love. I scanned the little room, desperation fueled my search for any clue that might shed light on that nightmare. Some faded purple smudges still adorned the walls, remnants of a hasty try to erase words once written there.

My eyes fell upon a coloring book perched on the nightstand, its pages a mixture of childhood innocence and hidden stories. Next to it lay an old, tattered photograph, its edges frayed. Curious, I wondered what secrets this room held? With each breath I took, the urgency to uncover the truth intensified, and I felt an unshakable resolve to protect Haven at all costs.

Bringing my attention back to the footprints on the floor, I was mystified. Somehow Haven had escaped her room that was locked from the outside, and was still locked when they found her missing. It made no sense at all. How did a nine year old, severely autistic child get out of a locked room, and then back in it long enough to leave bloody footprints, and then escape the entire house? A child who couldn’t even talk? My head was spinning. Round and round my thoughts circled, but I came to no logical conclusion. It was impossible!

Walking around her room searching for a clue, for anything at all, my eyes again landed on the nightstand with the coloring book and the old photograph. I walked across the room, carefully around the footprints on the floor as the wood squeaked under my steps, and I picked up the photo. It was a picture of my grandmother and my grandfather, sitting on their old front porch. Nestled between them was eleven year old me smiling from ear to ear, and there was my baby sister cradled in my grandmother’s arms. It was like a fairy tale picture to me, a happily ever after that I wish had truly existed. I couldn’t really recall this day at all, but I do know there was once a happy summer with my grandparents when mom took off on a trip with some dude. This must be a photo from that summer. I didn’t even know this photo existed, and I still wondered how Haven had ended up with it. looking at it, I turned it over, and saw something handwritten across the back. Written in my grandfathers neat, tight penmanship:

Luke 18:27

Curious, I remember I took my phone out of my back pocket and googled the verse. I didn’t know the words by heart at that moment, but I do now. They are etched on my heart.

“What is impossible with man is possible with God.”

My heart did a weird fluttery thing in my chest.

Impossible with man.

Possible with God.

Was it possible, what I was thinking? Only a few moments prior the whole situation seemed impossible. Now, my thoughts racing with hope, I dared to think outside of the box, flirting on the edge of everything I knew, daring to believe. After all, Haven had escaped her room without explanation once before. I remembered the words she had written all over the place the day I had been kicked out.

Let Me Out

And nobody I knew had listened. Her written words were seared in my memories. She remained locked up and I had left her behind, even if I had no choice at the time.

It was hard, remembering. Wondering if Haven thought I had abandoned her. That thought broke my heart.

She couldn’t possibly know why there weren’t any more bedtime stories or me sneaking snacks to her that I had saved all day from my free school lunches. She wouldn’t have understood why there were no more verses read from the old leather-bound Bible that my grandpa had given me. She wouldn’t know why I was no longer singing her softly to sleep. One day I was there, and the next I was gone, without even so much as a goodbye.

I sighed. A tear slipped down my cheek as I looked at the little bloody footprints on the floor. Mother’s blood. It was weird to think that this blood was inside of me, and inside of Haven. What makes a person do the things they do? I would never understand.

Looking at the blood, and despite the blood in my veins, I vowed to God to never hurt people the way my mother had. To only help as best I could. I closed my eyes and prayed again for Haven’s safety.

Was Haven scared? Hurting? Who, if anybody, had let her out? Who finally listened? Was it God? These questions and more swirled through my head. I was on the verge of an answer. I thought about what I did know. Haven’s previous escape and what little the police had told me, that my mother was believed to be the victim of murder at the hands of her live-in boyfriend. In a sick twist, he succumbed to his own demons, overdosing on a deadly mixture of heroin and cocaine, leaving behind a scene that spoke volumes about the chaos that had unfolded in that house.

Not sure if his was a suicide or accident, and not really caring, I knew that autopsies were supposed to be performed to confirm all of this. It was pretty much an open and shut case, according to the officer I had been talking to. It didn’t matter to me. The only thing I cared about was my little Haven. I looked at the picture again, at the smiling faces sitting happily on the old peeling porch. I looked and my mind raced and my heart began hoping. Desperately hoping.

Closing my eyes, I remembered grandpa’s prayer. His strong soothing voice. The prayer about both of us, being safe. I opened my eyes. All at once, in a flash, I knew where Haven was. I felt it in my heart, whispered to my soul.

---

~ONE YEAR LATER~

I have guardianship of Haven now. It didn’t take a lot. I had support from friends at Grandpa’s church and no other family who wanted to take on the responsibility of a special needs child. I am still working and I am now taking college courses at the local community college. I’m not sure what I want to do, but I know I want to work helping people. Counseling maybe? Most of all I want to work for God, though I could never ever repay Him.

He helped me to find my sister and myself. He brought us home. A year ago Haven had disappeared out of a locked room when my mother was murdered . Nobody knows how, but the craziest part is that when I left Mom’s house that day, I rushed homes to find Haven napping in the little twin bed of the spare bedroom in the home I had only just purchased, my grandfather’s old home. Sound asleep, with a little bit of dried blood on the bottom of her dirty little feet, I remember watching her sleeping and I fell on my knees. So confused and relieved, elated and in awe, all I could do was kneel in gratitude.

You know what? I still don’t know exactly how that little girl did it. Haven still does curiously strange things I can’t figure out sometimes. Items get moved, and then reappear where they weren’t before. She just giggles when I ask her about these things. I really love it when she giggles. She never did that before, and I have so much hope for her. I just watch and I wonder, and I believe in a God that is so much smarter than me.

Sometimes I have to be alright with not having all the answers.

I still pray. Daily. And my faith has exploded.

Haven is an odd and beautiful little girl who had faith in impossible things, as children often do. With a child’s faith she knew anything was possible, just like the words written on the back of that old photograph, and she believed she could get home. To our home. It wasn’t the first time Haven did something impossible, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last.

She still doesn’t talk (yet), but she writes the most amazing stories. In fact, one of my very favorite ones is about a baby giraffe that escaped from the zoo after wishing on a star. This story reminds me of Haven, and I think it was her way of telling me what happened in the best way she could. There is definitely a lot of beautiful and complicated things going on in that little girl’s head, and I totally can’t wait to see our next chapter. As our story unfolds, I promise to protect her from all the ugliness in this world the best way that I can.

In the end, it doesn’t matter to me how she got here. Whether it was faith or the magic of an autistic and gifted child, whether by quantum physics or a miracle, or maybe all of these things wrapped up together, the only thing that really matters to me is that she is here.

That we both are. Just like grandpa prayed.

Home.

For the first time in our lives, we are both finally home. 

Written by Renee River

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