“I hate you and never want to see you again!” shouted 16-year-old Ricky to his mother as he boarded the plane. Still stinging with hurt, Connie McNeil stood resolutely, a baby in one arm, a perplexed child on the other. Sending Ricky to live with his biological father was what had to be done--but it was still the hardest thing she would ever do. Ricky’s anger and frustration had gotten out of control, especially since Eddie, the only Dad he’d really ever known, had gone to prison three years earlier. She bitterly turned the details of her circumstances over in her mind as she watched out the window of the Houston terminal.

At home in Arkansas, Sheila Trotter had hit rock bottom. Her craving for crack had now impaired even the most reflexive of instincts: mother-love. Sheila’s need for another hit felt stronger than even the knowledge that she held a new life inside of her. J.T.*, her crack dealer, tried to dissuade her: “Girl, you know, you shouldn’t be doing this stuff. You got a baby inside you.” But Sheila wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.