It was the way he articulated it that struck a chord with me, the rhythm of his speech like a haunting melody. “Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who gave birth to me.” It’s a peculiar phrase, isn’t it? Not even my mother who gave birth to me.
He was secured in the backseat of my car, still too young to sit in front. At just seven years old, he had moved more times than the years he had lived. Each time, his belongings were crammed into a trash bag. A suitcase would have lent a shred of dignity to the process of being “placed” in yet another foster home before reaching the third grade. But trash bags are fragile; they tear apart. They can’t possibly hold the weight of a life—especially one as delicate as his.
This move was particularly tough for Alex. It was a home he had hoped to remain in for a while, a place where he had felt affection. When I arrived to pick him up, after his foster mother announced he could no longer stay, he walked with me quietly, head down, no visible reaction. It wasn’t until he got into my car that he began to sob in a way that left me feeling utterly helpless.
“Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who gave birth to me.”
Months later, in a similar scenario (another foster home, another removal), he would resist. He would dart around the living room, hiding behind furniture, unwilling to leave. But on this night, there was no fight left in him.
That was Alex at seven.
Fast forward to nine-year-old Alex, gripping his report card with clammy hands. We were on our way to an adoption event where families sought to adopt older children, families who might not automatically dismiss a boy like Alex because of his “history.” He wanted to impress these strangers, to win their affection, so he brought his good report card as tangible proof of his worthiness.
A child should never need to demonstrate their value to be loved.
At twelve, Alex told me I was his best friend. I was his social worker, and he deserved a real best friend, but I kept this to myself. We were filming for a segment called “Wednesday’s Child,” a feature showcasing children available for adoption. Alex was charming on camera. Perhaps this time, someone would choose him. Maybe, at twelve, he was showing just enough proof that he was truly lovable. Yet, a family never came.
Years later, long after I had departed from the agency, I received an email from my former boss inquiring about my well-being, concluding with, “Alex is in DYS lockup after running away from his foster home. You should adopt him.” My heart sank. I had thought about it countless times. I should adopt him myself. But I didn’t.
I heard about his tragic murder from a friend who had seen it in the news—shot outside a party over a trivial dispute. Dead at 18, just as he was becoming a man. Not my Alex, I prayed. When the reality set in that it was indeed him, I wept, overwhelmed by a grief that left me feeling utterly powerless.
The news barely covered his murder, treating it as an afterthought. Strangers online left cruel remarks: “Just another gangbanger.” You don’t know him. You don’t know the first thing about this boy. You don’t know that as a child, he would trace letters into my back with his finger during long waits at the doctor’s office, asking me to guess the phrases. “I ♥ U” he traced between my shoulders, the last time we played that game.
Alex had been mistaken that night in my car. His mother did love him, in her own way. She was there at the funeral, greeting me warmly. I think she sensed the bond we shared in our love for Alex. We both failed him in the end, and that united us, I suppose. Neither of us could provide him with a family.
There were no childhood photos of Alex at the funeral home—no snapshots of the boy with bright eyes and a beautiful smile to remind us of what was lost. No images of him with his siblings. In a small act of remembrance, I printed photos of the four boys together from a supervised visit and brought them to the funeral to share with the family. It was a gesture against the backdrop of my overwhelming helplessness.
Few social workers attended the funeral, and none of his many foster mothers were there. Did they even know he was gone? Alex 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 at their funeral. If they didn’t belong to you, then who did they ever belong to?
His mother was there at least—his mother who gave birth to him. I hear his voice echoing from long ago.
Somebody does love you, Alex. I wish I could tell him. But it’s too late.
Alex was the one for me. The one who represented the failures of a system so deeply flawed that healing it would require more than just casting a balm on the wounds of these children.
They break, you know. Those kids we leave behind. Eventually, they break.
For more information regarding adoption from the foster care system, consider visiting the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption.
Alex is a fictional name for a real boy the world lost.
Summary:
This poignant narrative reflects on the heart-wrenching experiences of a social worker who grapples with the fate of a child she didn’t adopt. The story of Alex highlights the systemic failures of foster care and the deep emotional scars left on vulnerable children. The author shares the sorrow of witnessing Alex’s struggles for love and belonging, culminating in a tragic end that emphasizes the urgent need for reform in the adoption system.