The countdown to my due date felt like a drum’s steady beat,
Each day a heavier weight, pressing, relentless, complete.
Anticipation twisted within, both thrilling and terrifying,
What would it feel like to hold her? Would I even be allowed to try?
The thought lingered, like a shadow that refused to leave,
A constant reminder of what I might not achieve.

Social services, too, had become a relentless drum,
Their visits, once occasional, now a constant hum.
Their car outside sent my heart into a knot,
What would they find wrong this time, what small fault?
A stray sock on the floor, a half-drunk cup of tea,
I became hyper-aware, waiting for their decree.

One visit stood out, a grey, drizzly afternoon,
The air inside felt heavy, like it had nowhere to bloom.
Two social workers stood at my door, their faces unreadable,
Their neutrality a mask, their words so predictable.
“We need to talk about your plan for after the birth,”
The tone matter-of-fact, as if speaking of the weather’s worth.

My heart sank as they sat, their pens poised to decide,
“We’re concerned about your ability to provide.”
“Your age, your situation, it’s all too much to bear,”
Their eyes cold with judgment, a future laid bare.
“We think it’s best you return to a foster home,
Until we know you’re...