It was the way he said it that struck a chord with me—the rhythm of his speech, the sharpness of his words. “Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who gave me life.”
There’s something heart-wrenching about that phrase, isn’t there?
He was sitting in the backseat of my car, still too young to ride in the front. At just seven years old, he had already changed homes more times than he had lived years. This time, like the others, he carried his belongings in a trash bag. A suitcase would have lent a hint of dignity to the experience of being shuffled from one foster home to another before reaching the third grade. But trash bags break easily. They can’t possibly hold the weight of a life, especially one as delicate as his.
This move was particularly difficult for him. He believed he would stay in this home for a while; he had found some affection there. When I arrived to pick him up after his foster mother had announced he could no longer remain, he came with me without resistance—head down, emotions locked away. It wasn’t until he settled into my car that he began to sob, a sound so deep and painful it left me feeling hollow.
“Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who gave me life.”
Months later, in a similar scenario—another foster mother, another removal—he fought back. He dashed around the living room, hiding behind furniture, refusing to leave. But that night, he had no fight left in him.
That was Stephen at seven.
Fast forward to nine years old, and Stephen clutched his report card tightly, his palms sweaty. We were on our way to an adoption event, a chance to meet families interested in adopting older children. He wanted to impress these strangers, to prove he was worthy of love, bringing along his report card as evidence of his worthiness.
A child should never have to prove their lovability.
At twelve, Stephen told me I was his best friend. I was his social worker, and he deserved a real best friend, but I kept that thought to myself. We were filming for a segment called Wednesday’s Child, showcasing children available for adoption. He was charming on camera, hoping that this time someone would choose him. He was lovable, truly, but it was never enough. A family never came.
Years later, I received an email from my former boss checking in. At the end, a brief PS caught my eye: “Stephen is in DYS lockup after running away from his foster home. You need to adopt him.” My heart sank. I had thought about this before—adopting him myself. But I didn’t.
I learned of his tragic murder through a friend who saw it on the news. Shot outside a party over a senseless altercation. Dead at 18, just as he was stepping into adulthood. “Not my Stephen,” I prayed. But when the truth settled in, I was left devastated, engulfed in an anguish that left me breathless.
The news coverage was scant—barely a mention. Anonymous commenters dismissed him with cruel words, “Just another gangbanger.” You don’t know him, I wanted to scream. You don’t see the boy who traced letters on my back during doctor visits, spelling out messages of love.
That night in my car, Stephen had been mistaken. His mother did love him, in her own way. She was present at the funeral, greeting me warmly. I sensed we both shared a love for Stephen, both having failed him in the end. Neither of us could provide him the family he needed.
At the funeral, there were no photos from Stephen’s childhood, no images of the green-eyed boy with the sweet smile. I took snapshots of him with his brothers from a supervised visit and brought them to share with his family. It was a small gesture, a way to honor his memory amid the overwhelming silence of loss.
Few social workers attended, and none of his many foster mothers showed. Did they even know he was gone? Stephen had spent more of his life in the system than anywhere else. If you take legal responsibility for a child, you should be there for them at the end. He deserved that. And if he didn’t belong to them, then who did he belong to?
At least his mother was there. The one who gave him life. I still hear the echo of his voice, pleading for love.
Somebody does love you, Stephen. I wish I could tell him. But it’s too late. Stephen was the embodiment of all the failures within a broken system that requires more than just mending to heal.
These children break, you know. Eventually, they break.
For those considering adoption or seeking more information on the foster care system, resources like the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption can be invaluable. Additionally, if you’re looking into pregnancy and home insemination, check out this post on the at-home insemination kit, or explore BabyMaker’s home insemination kit for expert advice. For guidance on pregnancy, visit WomensHealth.gov for excellent resources.
In summary, the story of Stephen serves as a somber reminder of the vulnerabilities faced by children in the foster care system. His longing for love and the failures of the adults around him highlight the urgent need for systemic change.
Keyphrase: foster care adoption
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