It was the way he articulated his feelings that struck me. The rhythm of his words, almost staccato in delivery. “Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who brought me into this world.”
It’s a peculiar phrase, isn’t it? Not even my mother who brought me into this world.
He was strapped into the backseat of my car, too young to sit in the front. At just seven years old, he had already relocated more times than the years he had lived. This time, like all the others, he arrived with his belongings stuffed into a trash bag. A suitcase would have offered a hint of dignity in the chaotic process of being shuffled from one foster home to another before hitting 3rd grade. Trash bags rip easily, after all. They can’t support the weight of a life, especially one as delicate as his.
Eventually, they give way.
This move was particularly tough for Jacob. He had begun to feel a sense of belonging in that home—something he had not expected. When I arrived to take him away, having been informed by his foster mother that he could no longer stay, he came to me quietly, head bowed, showing no outward emotion. It was only once he settled into my vehicle that he broke down, his sobs resonating with a deep sorrow that left me feeling utterly helpless.
“Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who brought me into this world.”
Months later, another change loomed (yet another foster mother, another departure), and this time Jacob resisted fiercely, darting around the living room, hiding behind furniture, desperately trying to avoid leaving. But on that night, he seemed defeated.
That was Jacob at seven.
Fast forward to nine-year-old Jacob, clutching his report card with clammy hands. We were on our way to an adoption event, where families interested in adopting older children would meet him. He longed to impress these strangers, to show them that he was deserving of love, and he clutched his report card as proof of his worthiness.
A child should never have to prove their value.
By the time Jacob turned twelve, he confided in me that I was his best friend. As his social worker, I knew he deserved a true best friend, but I kept that thought to myself. We were filming a segment for “Wednesday’s Child,” a program showcasing children available for adoption. Jacob was engaging on camera, and I held onto hope that this time someone would choose him. He was lovable, without a doubt. But still, no family came for him.
Years later, after I had moved on from the agency, I received an email from my former supervisor checking in on me. The message concluded with a troubling postscript: “Jacob is in DYS lockup after running away from his foster home. You really should adopt him.” My heart sank. I had thought about this many times but never acted on it.
I learned of his tragic death from a friend who had seen the news. He was shot outside a party over a petty dispute, taken from this world at just 18 years old. Not my Jacob, I prayed. But when I realized it truly was him, I was consumed by an anguish that left me feeling utterly defeated.
The media barely covered the incident, treating it as an afterthought. Anonymous commenters on social media labeled him a “gangbanger,” oblivious to the truth of his life. “You don’t even know him,” I wanted to scream. “You don’t know the boy who traced letters on my back at the doctor’s office, who once spelled out ‘I ♥ U’ on my skin during our last game.”
That night in my car, Jacob had it wrong. His mother did care for him, in her own way. She attended his funeral and greeted me warmly, as if we shared an unspoken bond of love for him. In the end, we both failed him; neither of us was able to provide him with the family he so desperately needed.
At the funeral home, there were no photographs of Jacob’s childhood, no reminders of the green-eyed boy with a sweet smile. I printed snapshots of him with his brothers from a supervised visit, hoping to offer some comfort to his family in the face of such loss. It was a small gesture against the backdrop of a greater tragedy.
Few social workers attended the funeral, and none of his numerous foster mothers were there. Did they even know he had passed? Jacob spent more of his life in the system than out of it. If you take legal responsibility for a child, you owe it to them to show up when they die. If he didn’t belong to you, who did he ever belong to?
His mother was present, at least. The one who brought him into this world. I can still hear the echo of his voice from so many years ago.
Somebody does love you, Jacob. I wish I could tell him. But now, it is too late.
Jacob was the embodiment of all the failures within a system so dysfunctional that healing it would require far more than just mending the physical wounds of children growing up in its care.
They break, you know. These children we leave behind. Ultimately, they shatter.
For more information about adoption from the foster care system, explore resources like the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption or check out Modern Family Blog for insightful articles on this vital topic. Additionally, if you’re looking for an excellent resource on pregnancy and home insemination, visit Johns Hopkins Fertility Center for guidance.