From the other side

20 years ago

The first time Kamala Harris met Lizzy, the little girl was curled up in the corner of a social worker’s office, hugging a raggedy stuffed bear like it was her only lifeline. Her dark eyes, wide with fear and exhaustion, flickered toward Kamala for the briefest of moments before she buried her face into the bear’s matted fur.

“She’s been through a lot,” the social worker, Amanda, said quietly. “Her parents—” Amanda hesitated, glancing at the child as if she might understand every word. “It wasn’t safe for her there. She’s been in and out of different homes for months. We just need a temporary place while we figure out a permanent solution.”

Kamala nodded, her heart tightening at the sight of the frail little girl. She’d agreed to be a foster parent because she believed every child deserved safety and care. But looking at Lizzy now, she felt something deeper—an ache, an immediate need to protect.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Kamala said softly, kneeling beside the chair. “I’m Kamala. Would you like to come home with me for a little while?”

Lizzy hesitated. She didn’t look up. But after a long moment, she nodded, just once, clutching the bear even tighter.

Lizzy barely spoke in the first few weeks. She flinched at loud noises. She refused to sleep in the bed Kamala had set up for her, choosing instead to curl into a ball on the floor of the bedroom with the bear tucked under her chin. Kamala let her, not wanting to push her too soon. Every meal was eaten cautiously, as if Lizzy expected it to be taken away. And the idea of hugs—of touch—seemed foreign to her.

Kamala was patient. She left a nightlight on, cooked warm meals, sat beside her but never forced conversation. Slowly, Lizzy began to relax. She started sitting next to Kamala on the couch, even if it was just to quietly exist in the same space. She ate her food without hesitation. And one night, Kamala found her curled up in bed, instead of the floor.

Then came the attachment.

It started small. Lizzy would tug at Kamala’s sleeve when she wanted attention. She’d follow her around the house, staying close but never saying much. And then, one evening, after Kamala had returned from work, Lizzy ran to her and wrapped her tiny arms around her waist.

Kamala froze. It was the first time Lizzy had initiated touch. Her heart ached and swelled at the same time. Slowly, carefully, she wrapped her arms around the child and held her close. Lizzy didn’t pull away.

After that, the floodgates opened. Lizzy crawled into her lap when she was tired. She started calling out for her in the middle of the night. She held Kamala’s hand when they walked outside. And Kamala—oh, she had fallen so fast and so deep in love with this little girl.

But Lizzy was scared.

One night, Kamala found her sitting up in bed, wide-eyed and clutching her bear. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Kamala asked, kneeling beside her.

Lizzy hesitated. “How long?” she whispered.

Kamala frowned. “How long what?”

Lizzy’s small fingers clutched the sheets. “How long do I stay?”

Kamala’s heart clenched. “Lizzy…” She brushed a hand through the child’s soft curls. “Do you want to stay?”

Lizzy’s lower lip trembled, and she nodded. “But they always take me away.”

Kamala swallowed against the tightness in her throat. She knew she’d only agreed to be a temporary foster home. But looking at Lizzy, at the way her tiny body trembled with fear of abandonment, she knew she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let her go.