It was the way he articulated his feelings that struck me profoundly. The rhythm of his words, the sharpness of his utterances lingered in the air.
“Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who gave birth to me.”
It’s a peculiar expression, isn’t it? The emphasis on “not even my mother who gave birth to me.”
He was secured in the backseat of my car, still too young to sit in the front. At the age of seven, he had already experienced more relocations than the number of years he had been alive. This time, as with previous moves, he carried his possessions in a trash bag. A suitcase would have lent a modicum of dignity to the unsettling process of being shuffled between foster homes before reaching the third grade. Trash bags tear easily, and they certainly cannot bear the weight of a life, especially one as delicate as his.
Eventually, they give way under pressure.
This transition was particularly challenging for Liam. He believed he had found a place where he could remain, at least for a while. He had felt a sense of warmth there. When I arrived to pick him up after his foster mother indicated he could no longer stay, he left without protest; his head hung low, displaying no outward reaction. It was only once he was inside my vehicle that he began to weep with a deep, heart-wrenching sound that left an emotional void in its wake.
He struggled to articulate his feelings: “Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who gave birth to me.”
Months later, a similar scenario unfolded (another foster placement, another removal). This time, he fought back. He dashed around the living room, hiding behind furniture, unwilling to leave. Yet on this night, he lacked the energy to resist.
That was Liam at seven.
Fast forward to nine years old, and Liam clutched his report card with clammy hands. We were on our way to an adoption event, where families interested in adopting older children would be present—families who wouldn’t automatically dismiss a boy like Liam with his complex “history.” He wanted to impress these strangers, to convince them of his worth, so he brought his good report card as tangible proof of his desirability.
No child should ever have to validate their worthiness of love.
At twelve, Liam declared that I was his best friend. While I was his social worker, he deserved a genuine best friend, but I kept that thought to myself. We were at a taping for a segment called “Wednesdays for Kids,” showcasing children available for adoption. Liam was charming on camera, hoping this time he might be noticed. Perhaps, by the age of twelve, he could demonstrate enough that he was a boy deserving of love. And he was lovable, without a doubt. Yet it wasn’t sufficient. A family never materialized.
Years later, long after I distanced myself from the agency, I received a message from my former supervisor inquiring about my well-being, finishing with a brief note: “Liam is in DYS custody after running away from his foster placement. You should adopt him.” My heart sank. I had thought about it many times. I really should adopt him. But I didn’t.
I learned of his tragic death through a friend who saw it reported in the news. He was shot outside a celebration over a trivial dispute. Dead at eighteen, just as he was stepping into adulthood. I whispered a plea that it wasn’t my Liam. When I realized it truly was him—there could be no mistake—I was enveloped in a sorrow that left me utterly deflated.
The media barely covered the murder, treating it as an insignificant blip. Anonymous commentators online expressed disdain, labeling him “just another gangbanger.”
You don’t even know him. You don’t understand who this boy was. You don’t know that, as a child, he would trace letters on my back in waiting rooms, asking me to guess the phrases he was spelling. “I ♥ U,” he traced on my shoulders, the last time we played this game.
Liam had been mistaken that night in my car. His mother loved him, albeit in her own way. She attended the funeral and greeted me warmly, as if she sensed my affection for Liam. We had both failed him in the end, which created an unspoken bond between us. Neither of us could provide him with the family he needed.
There were no childhood photographs displayed at the funeral home—no reminders of the green-eyed boy with the infectious smile. No images of Liam with his siblings. In an effort to contribute something meaningful amidst the overwhelming sense of loss, I printed snapshots of the four brothers together during a supervised visit and brought them to the funeral for the family. It was a small gesture, yet it felt like the least I could do.
Very few social workers attended the funeral, nor did any of Liam’s numerous foster mothers show up. Did they even know he had passed? Liam spent more of his life within the child welfare system than outside of it. If you take legal responsibility for a child, you should honor that by attending their funeral. You owe it to them. And if he didn’t belong to you, then who did he ever truly belong to?
His mother was there, at least—the mother who gave him life. I can still hear the echo of his voice from so many years ago.
Somebody does love you, Liam. I long to tell him. But it’s too late.
Liam represented for me the profound failures of a system so flawed that healing it would demand far more than mere band-aids to mend the figurative fractures of the children caught in its grasp.
They break, you know. These children we neglect. Ultimately, they shatter.
For more information on adoption from the foster care system, I recommend visiting the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption.
Liam is a fictional name for a real boy the world lost.
Summary
The narrative follows the life of a young boy named Liam, who struggles with the trauma of multiple foster placements, feeling unloved and unwanted. Despite his efforts to connect and prove his worth, he ultimately becomes a victim of systemic failures, leading to his tragic end. The story highlights the need for compassion and understanding towards children in the foster care system and emphasizes the importance of familial support.
Keyphrase
Child adoption and foster care
Tags
home insemination kit, home insemination syringe, self insemination