Updated: May 13, 2020
Originally Published: Oct. 25, 2014
There was something in the way he spoke that struck a chord with me, a rhythm to his words that lingered. “Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who gave birth to me.” Isn’t that a peculiar way to express such deep hurt? Not even my mother who gave birth to me.
He was strapped in the backseat of my car, still too small for the front. At just seven years old, he had already experienced more relocations than the years he had lived. This time, like the others, he moved with his life’s belongings stuffed into a trash bag. A suitcase would have added a modicum of dignity to this continual cycle of being “placed” in various foster homes before he even reached the third grade. But trash bags tear, you know. They can’t possibly uphold the weight of a life, especially one as delicate as his.
This particular move was harder on Ethan than most. He had believed this was a home he might actually stay in for a while, a place where he had felt some sense of affection. When I arrived to pick him up after his foster mother announced he could no longer stay, he came with me quietly; head bowed, no visible reaction. It was only once he settled into my car that the heart-wrenching sobs began—the kind that renders you helpless in its wake.
“Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who gave birth to me.”
Months later, in a similar scene (another foster mother, another removal), he would resist fiercely. He would dart around the living room, hiding behind furniture, refusing to leave. But that night, he had no fight left in him.
That was Ethan at seven.
At nine, he clutched his report card tightly, sweaty palms betraying his nerves. We were on our way to an adoption event where families interested in adopting older children would gather; families who might not dismiss a boy like Ethan with his extensive “history.” He wanted to impress them, to win them over. So, he brought his report card—a tangible token to prove he was a child deserving of love. But no child should ever have to prove their worthiness of love.
By the time he turned twelve, Ethan declared me his best friend. I was his social worker, and I knew he deserved a real best friend, but I kept that to myself. At a taping for Wednesday’s Child, a segment spotlighting children seeking adoption, Ethan shone on camera. Perhaps this time, someone would choose him. Maybe, at twelve, he could finally show he was a boy worth loving. And he was, truly. But still, no family came.
Years later, long after I had left the agency, I received an email from my former supervisor asking how I was. It ended with a troubling postscript: “Ethan is in DYS lockup after running away from his foster home. You need to adopt him.” My heart sank. I had thought about adopting him countless times, but I never did.
I learned of his tragic death from a friend who saw it in the news. Shot outside a party over some petty dispute. Gone at just 18, right when he was beginning to step into manhood. Not my Ethan, I prayed. Upon realizing it was indeed him, I was overtaken by a sorrow that left me breathless.
The media barely covered the murder, as if it were just a footnote. Strangers online hurled cruel comments: “Just another gangbanger,” they said. They didn’t even know him. They didn’t know that as a child, he would trace letters on my back to pass the time at doctor’s appointments, asking me to guess the phrases. “I ♥ U,” he traced between my shoulders during our last game.
Ethan had been mistaken that night in my car; his mother did love him, in her own way. She attended the funeral and greeted me warmly. I think she sensed the love I held for Ethan, just as she did. In the end, we both failed him, and that connected us. Neither of us could give him the family he deserved.
At the funeral, no mementos from Ethan’s childhood adorned the memorial. No snapshots of the green-eyed boy with the cherubic smile who had touched our lives. I printed photos of the four boys taken during a supervised visit and brought them to the funeral to share with his family. It was a small gesture amidst the overwhelming emptiness of what could have been.
The attendees were few, no social workers or foster mothers present. Did they even know he had passed? Ethan spent more of his life within the system than outside it. If you take legal responsibility for a child, you ought to be there when they die. You owe them that. And if he didn’t belong to you, then who did he ever belong to?
At least his mother was there. His mother who gave birth to him. I can still hear the echo of his voice from years past.
Somebody does love you, Ethan. I want to tell him. But it’s too late.
Ethan represented all the failures of a system so flawed that healing it would require far more than just mending the broken bones of the children who grow up within it. They break, you know. The kids we leave behind. Eventually, they break.
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Summary:
This poignant narrative reflects on the life of Ethan, a boy navigating the foster care system, through the eyes of his social worker. It highlights the emotional struggles faced by children in foster care, the longing for love and family, and the tragic consequences of systemic failures. Ultimately, it serves as a reminder of the importance of compassion and connection in the lives of vulnerable children.
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Keyphrase: The Child I Couldn’t Save
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