Parenting
There was something about the way he spoke that struck a chord with me. The rhythm of his words, the sharpness of his voice.
“Nobody loves me. Not even my mom who brought me into this world.”
Isn’t that a peculiar way to express such a feeling? Not even my mom who brought me into this world.
He was strapped into the backseat of my car, too young to ride shotgun. At just seven, he had already relocated more times than the years he had lived. This time, like the others before it, he arrived with his belongings stuffed into a trash bag. A suitcase would have lent a modicum of dignity to the whole ordeal—being shuffled from one foster home to another before even hitting the third grade. Trash bags tear, you know. They can’t possibly hold the weight of a life, especially one as delicate as his.
Eventually, they rip under pressure.
This move was particularly tough for a boy named Alex. He had hoped that this home might be his forever home. He felt love there. When I arrived to pick him up after his foster mother announced he could no longer stay, he came willingly, head down, offering no outward reaction. But once he settled into the car, he began to sob in a way that leaves you feeling utterly hollow.
“Nobody loves me. Not even my mom who brought me into this world.”
Just a few months later, in a familiar scene (another foster mother, another exit), he would resist vehemently. He darted around the living room, hiding behind furniture, refusing to leave. But this night, he had no fight left in him.
That was Alex at seven.
By nine, Alex clutched his report card, damp with sweat, as we made our way to an adoption event. This was his chance to meet families interested in adopting older children; families who might not dismiss a boy like Alex with his complex “history.” He wanted to impress these strangers, so he brought along his good report card as concrete proof that he was a child deserving of love.
A child should never have to prove their worthiness of love.
When he turned twelve, Alex told me I was his best friend. As his social worker, I knew he deserved a real best friend, but I kept that thought to myself. We were at a taping for Wednesday’s Child, a news segment highlighting kids in need of adoption. Alex was charming on camera. Perhaps this time someone would recognize that he was worth loving. And he truly was lovable. But still, no family came.
Years later, well after I left the agency, I received an email from my former boss checking in on me. It ended with a brief note: “Alex is in DYS custody after running away from his foster home. You should adopt him.” My heart sank. I had contemplated this many times. I should adopt him myself. But I didn’t.
I learned about his tragic death from a friend who saw it in the news. Shot outside a party over a senseless argument. Gone at 18, just as he was stepping into adulthood. I prayed, “Not my Alex.” But when I realized it was truly him—there could be no mistake—I was consumed by a sorrow that left me breathless.
The newspapers barely covered the murder, treating it as an afterthought. Anonymous commenters online made cruel remarks: “Just another thug,” they said.
You don’t even know him. You don’t know anything about this boy. You don’t know that he spent time tracing letters on my back to pass the time while waiting at the doctor’s office, asking me to guess the phrase he was spelling. “I ♥ U” he traced between my shoulders during our last game.
Alex was 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 that I loved Alex just as she did. In the end, we both failed him, and that connection united us in grief. Neither of us could provide him with a family.
At the funeral home, there were no childhood photos of Alex, no snapshots of the green-eyed boy with the charming smile. No images of him with his siblings. I printed out pictures of the four brothers together, taken during a supervised visit, and brought them to the funeral to give to his family. It was a small gesture against the overwhelming backdrop of helplessness I felt.
Very few social workers attended the funeral, and none of his numerous foster mothers. Did they even know he had passed? Alex spent more of his life in the system than outside of it. If you take on the legal responsibility for a child, you should show up when they die. You owe it to them. If he didn’t belong to you, then who did he ever 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 long ago.
Somebody does love you, Alex. I wish I could tell him. But it’s too late.
Alex was the embodiment of all the failures of a system so broken that it would take far more than a simple fix to heal it.
They break, you know. These kids we leave behind. Eventually, they break.
For more information on adoption from the foster care system, check out the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption, and for insights into pregnancy and home insemination, visit ACOG’s excellent resource on treating infertility. If you’re interested in fertility boosters for men, make sure to look at this page for helpful tips.
Summary:
This poignant reflection captures the heartbreaking journey of a young boy named Alex, navigating the foster care system and yearning for love. Despite his efforts to prove his worthiness, he ultimately faced tragic circumstances that underscore the failures of a broken system. The narrative highlights the emotional weight carried by children in foster care, emphasizing the importance of connection and the profound impact of loss.