There was something haunting about the way he spoke. The rhythm of his words struck a chord with me, especially when he uttered, “Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who gave birth to me.” Isn’t that a peculiar expression? Not even my mother who gave birth to me.
In the backseat of my car, a Toyota that was more reliable than a friend, sat young Alex, too small to ride in front. At just seven years old, he had already been uprooted more times than the years he had lived. This time, as with all previous moves, his belongings were stuffed into a trash bag. A suitcase would have at least lent him a smidgen of dignity—a little respect for being “placed” into yet another foster home before hitting the third grade. But trash bags tear, you know. They can’t possibly carry the weight of a fragile life like Alex’s. Eventually, they give way.
This particular move hit Alex harder than the rest. He had thought he’d found a place to belong, a home where he felt cared for. When I arrived to pick him up after his foster mother announced he had to leave, he came with me quietly, head bowed, masking the chaos within. But as soon as he settled into my car, the dam broke, and he sobbed with an intensity that left me breathless. “Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who gave birth to me.”
Months later, in a similar scene (another foster mother, another goodbye), Alex fought back. He dashed around the living room, ducking behind furniture, unwilling to go. But on that night, he had no fight left in him.
That was Alex at seven.
Fast forward to nine-year-old Alex, gripping his report card tightly. We were on our way to an adoption event where families hoped to adopt older children. He wanted to impress these strangers, so he clutched his good report card as if it were a golden ticket to love. A child should never have to prove their worthiness of love.
By twelve, Alex confided in me that I was his best friend. I was his social worker, which should have meant he had a real best friend, but I kept that thought to myself. We were at a taping for a segment called “Wednesday’s Child,” showcasing kids looking for families. Alex was charming in front of the camera, perhaps just enough to convince someone that he was a boy worth loving. And he truly was lovable. Yet, no family ever came for him.
Years later, long after leaving my position, I received an email from my former boss asking how I was doing. It concluded with a jarring P.S.: “Alex is in DYS lockup after running away from his foster home. You should adopt him.” My heart sank. I had thought about that countless times. I should adopt him myself. But I didn’t.
The news of his death came like a punch to the gut from a friend who’d seen it on the local news—shot outside a party over a senseless dispute. Dead at 18, just as he was becoming a man. “Not Alex,” I prayed. But when I realized it was truly him, I sobbed, overwhelmed by a grief that left me weak.
The papers barely covered his murder, treating it as an afterthought. Anonymous strangers commented online, “Just another gangbanger,” as if they knew anything about him. You don’t understand, I wanted to scream. You don’t know that he would trace letters on my back with his finger during long waits at the doctor’s office, spelling out “I ♥ U” between my shoulders.
That night in my car, Alex had been mistaken. His mother did love him, in her own way. She was there at the funeral, and we exchanged warm greetings. I sensed she understood how much I cared for Alex, just as she did. We both failed him, and that connection bound us in shared sorrow. Neither of us could provide him with the family he needed.
At the funeral home, there were no photos of Alex’s childhood, no smiling images of the green-eyed boy we lost. I printed snapshots of him with his brothers from a supervised visit to share with his family—a small gesture against the backdrop of helplessness.
Only a handful of social workers attended the funeral, and none of Alex’s many foster mothers. Did they even know he had died? He spent more time in the system than with a real family. If you take on the responsibility for a child, you should show up when they’re gone. He was yours, in a way. If not you, then who could he ever belong to?
At least his mother was there. The mother who gave birth to him. I could almost hear the echo of his words from years past. Somebody does love you, Alex. I wish I could tell him. But it’s too late.
Alex was the one for me—the embodiment of a system so broken that fixing it would require more than just a bandage over the wounds of children like him. They break, you know. These kids we leave behind. Eventually, they break.
For more information on adoption from the foster care system, you can check out the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption. And if you’re interested in home insemination, you might want to visit this helpful resource or learn more about at-home insemination kits. If you’re curious about IVF and pregnancy options, News Medical provides excellent insights.
Summary
This reflection on the life of a boy named Alex highlights the failures of a broken system, the fleeting nature of childhood love, and the profound loss felt when children like Alex slip through the cracks. His story serves as a call to action for those who take on the responsibility of caring for children, while also reminding us of the importance of love and connection in every child’s life.