Parenting
The Child I Couldn’t Adopt by Mia Thompson
Updated: May 13, 2020
Originally Published: Oct. 25, 2014
It was something about the way he spoke that struck me. His words had a peculiar rhythm, a disjointed quality. “Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who gave birth to me.”
Isn’t that a strange way to express such a deep feeling? Not even my mother who gave birth to me.
He was securely buckled into the backseat of my car, too young to sit in the front. At just seven, he had experienced more relocations than the number of years he had been alive. This time, like the ones before, he was moving with his possessions stuffed in a trash bag. A suitcase might have lent a modicum of dignity to the situation—being “placed” in yet another foster home before reaching the third grade. Trash bags, however, are prone to tears. They cannot bear the weight of a life, especially not one as vulnerable as his.
This move was particularly challenging for David; he had hoped this would be a permanent home. He had felt some affection there. When I arrived to pick him up after his foster mother informed me he could no longer stay, he came with me without resistance—his head down, emotions hidden. It was only once he was in my car that he broke down, sobbing in a way that drained the energy from everyone around him.
“Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who gave birth to me.”
Months later, during a similar scene (another foster mother, another forced departure), he put up a fight. He dashed around the living room, seeking refuge behind furniture, unwilling to leave. But on that particular night, he had no fight left in him.
That was David at seven.
At nine, he clutched his report card nervously as we drove to an adoption event designed to connect older children with potential families. He wanted to impress these strangers, to show them he was worth adopting, so he brought along his good report card as evidence of his worth.
No child should ever have to prove they deserve love.
At twelve, David told me I was his best friend. As his social worker, I knew he should have a true friend, but I held my tongue. We were at a taping for a segment called Wednesday’s Child, a feature showcasing children available for adoption. David was engaging on camera, perhaps offering just the right amount of evidence that he was a boy deserving of love. And he was lovable, genuinely. But it was still not sufficient. A family never came for him.
Years later, long after I had left the agency, I received an email from my former supervisor checking in on me. The message ended with a short P.S. that read, “David is in DYS lockup after running away from his foster home. You need to adopt him.” My heart sank. I had contemplated adopting him many times but had never acted on it.
I learned of his tragic death from a friend who saw it in the news: shot outside a party over a senseless dispute. Dead at 18, just as he was stepping into adulthood. “Not my David,” I prayed. But when I confirmed the details, I was overwhelmed with grief, the kind that leaves one utterly drained.
The media scarcely covered his murder, treating it like an afterthought. Online, anonymous individuals posted cruel comments: “Just another gangbanger,” they said.
You don’t even know him. You don’t know anything about this boy. You don’t realize that, as a child, he would trace letters into my back during dull moments at the doctor’s office, challenging me to guess the phrase he was spelling. “I ♥ U” he traced between my shoulders during our last game.
David had been mistaken that night in my car. His mother did love him, in her own way. She attended the funeral and welcomed me with kindness. I think she sensed the love I held for David, just as she did. In our own ways, we had both failed him, and that connection, I suppose, united us. Neither of us could provide him with a family.
At the funeral home, there were no photographs from David’s childhood. No images of the green-eyed boy with the warm smile to remind us of what had been lost. There were no pictures of him with his siblings, so I printed snapshots of the four boys together from a supervised visit and brought them to the funeral to give to his family. It was a small gesture amidst the larger feeling of helplessness.
There were very few social workers present at the funeral and none of his many foster mothers. Did they even know he had passed away? David had spent more of his life in the system than outside it. If you take legal responsibility for a child, you should show up for them, especially when they die. You owe it to them. And if he didn’t belong to anyone, then who ever did he truly belong to?
His mother was there, at least. The one who brought him into this world. I hear the echo of his voice from so many years ago.
Somebody does love you, David. I want to tell him. But it’s too late.
David was the child who encapsulated all the failures of a system so flawed that mending it would require more than superficial fixes.
They break, you know. These children we abandon. Eventually, they break.
For more information on adoption from the foster care system, visit the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption.
David is a fictional name representing a real boy who was lost to the world.
Summary
This heartfelt narrative reflects on the profound impact of a young boy named David, who faced the harsh realities of the foster care system. The author recounts their experiences with him from childhood through his tragic end, emphasizing the failures of a broken system that could not provide him with the love and stability he desperately needed. Through this poignant story, the author highlights the importance of acknowledging and addressing the struggles faced by children in foster care.