After losing my parents, my sisters left me in foster care. Then my girlfriend tried to bring them back in my life, and now they all want my help. When I was ten, my mom passed away.
It was sudden, and there wasn’t much time to process what was happening. One day she was there and the next she wasn’t. It was a car accident.
I remember sitting in the waiting room at the hospital while the nurses spoke in hush tones. My sisters, Kylie and Danielle, were both there, but they didn’t seem as shaken as I was. Maybe it was because they were older, or maybe it was because they had already started pulling away from our family by then.
Kylie was twenty-three and busy with her new job, and Danielle, at nineteen, was starting college. I was just a kid, and suddenly everything I knew about stability and family was gone. At the funeral, I expected my sisters to step up.
I mean, they were adults. Kylie had her own apartment, and Danielle was sharing a dorm with a couple of friends. I figured one of them would take me in, or at least offer to, but instead I overheard them talking about arrangements.
That’s how I learned I wasn’t going to stay with either of them. The social worker who showed up the next week confirmed it. She was nice enough, but all I could focus on was the fact that my sisters didn’t want me.
They gave excuses, of course. Kylie said she wasn’t ready to be a full-time guardian. Danielle claimed she couldn’t juggle school and raising a kid.
I didn’t know what to say back then. I was just a scared kid who’d lost his mom. But the way they avoided eye contact when they talked to me said it all.
They weren’t interested in taking on that responsibility. I was shuffled into the foster care system without much fanfare. Kylie signed some papers, patted me on the shoulder, and said she’d visit.
Spoiler alert: she didn’t. Foster care was a mixed bag. I ended up in a decent home eventually, but it took a while to get there.
My first placement was with a family that saw me as a paycheck. They didn’t hit me or anything, but they were distant. Meals were served on time, the fridge was stocked, but the house always felt cold.
My foster parents didn’t talk to me unless it was necessary, and they had two older kids who made it clear I wasn’t part of their little family. I spent most of my time alone, sitting in my room with my mom’s old photo album. It was one of the few things I’d managed to take with me.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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