The paradox of a slave

I took the seat to the left of my son's father. Nervously I awaited for my second born to walk through the door. With my head bowed I heard him before I had a chance to look up. The clink clink clank clank of his chains sang out and forced me to acknowledge his presence. We made eye contact but I quickly looked away to avoid a rainfall of tears. Seeing him in a green suit with chains binding his hands and feet made my heart heavy. I would like to think that every parent wants their child to do better than them. We pour blood, sweat and tears into making sure that they choose a better path than we did. Our children's failures become our failures. The sweetness of their success we taste and celebrate with them. They, after all, are a reflection of us. I sat wondering if the judge could see my blood, taste my sweat or feel my tears that I have cried along the way. Did the thick green folder speak of my fight that spanned 16 years? Could it possibly tell the story of a teenage mother who climbed from the stereotypes of welfare to a highly successful career? Did he care that my son, when not physically restrained in chains, is mentally enslaved by mental illness. Was my son another number to him and me just another statistic? I quietly waited while the judge reviewed his file. The words the judge spoke have been lost to the vacuums of time. But the sound of those chains still resonate in my mind. I couldn't help but compare my son standing there young, black and enslaved. Legally free and mentally free are miles apart from each other. I wonder if that is how a slave mother felt when her children were sold to another owner. All her blood, sweat and tears being sold at the auction block. What is the value of a mother's blood, sweat and tears?