It was the way he said it that struck me—the rhythm of his speech, the sharpness of his delivery. “Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who brought me into this world.” It’s a peculiar way to express such a deep hurt, isn’t it?
He was secured in the backseat of my car, too young to sit in the front. At just seven years old, he had already been moved more times than he had lived years. Each transition meant carrying his belongings in a trash bag, which seemed to sap the dignity from the process of being shifted from one foster home to another before he even reached the third grade. A suitcase would have signified a bit of respect for his journey. But trash bags aren’t meant to carry the weight of a life, especially one as delicate as his. They tear easily, and eventually, they break.
This particular relocation was particularly challenging for Nolan. He had hoped this home would be a stable place for him, at least for a while. He had experienced affection there. When I arrived to collect him after his foster mother indicated he could no longer stay, he came to me quietly; his head hung low, showing no outward emotion. But as soon as he settled into my car, he began to cry—a heart-wrenching sound that lingers long after it fades.
“Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who brought me into this world.”
Months later, during another round of upheaval (another foster mother, another departure), he would resist. He would dash around the living room, hiding behind furniture, unwilling to leave. But on this particular night, he possessed no fight left in him.
That was Nolan at seven.
Fast forward to nine-year-old Nolan, clutching his report card with clammy hands. We were headed to an adoption event, a gathering for families interested in older children; families who might consider a boy like Nolan, despite his complicated past. He wanted to impress these strangers, to show them that he was a child deserving of love, so he brought his report card along as evidence of his worth.
No child should ever feel the need to prove their worthiness of love.
By twelve, Nolan confided in me that I was his best friend. I was his social worker, and he should have had a real best friend, but I kept that thought to myself. We were participating in a taping for a segment called “Wednesday’s Child,” showcasing children available for adoption. Nolan was engaging in front of the camera, perhaps hoping this time someone would choose him. Maybe he was presenting just enough proof, at twelve, that he was a boy deserving of love. And he was truly lovable. But it wasn’t enough. A family never materialized.
Years later, long after I had left the agency, I received an email from my former supervisor inquiring about my well-being and concluding with a brief note: “Nolan is in DYS lockup after running away from his foster home. You need to adopt him.” My heart sank. I had thought about this countless times. I should have adopted him. But I didn’t.
I learned about his tragic death from a friend who saw it in the news. He was shot outside a party over a trivial dispute. Gone at 18, just as he was stepping into adulthood. “Not my Nolan,” I prayed. When I comprehended that it truly was him—there could be no mistake—I was overwhelmed by a sorrow that left me utterly drained.
The media barely covered his murder; it seemed like an afterthought. Anonymous commentators online made cruel remarks: “Just another gangbanger,” they said.
You don’t even know him. You don’t understand anything about this boy. You don’t know that as a child he would trace letters onto my back at the doctor’s office, asking me to guess what he was spelling. “I ♥ U,” he traced between my shoulder blades, the last time we played that game.
Nolan had been mistaken that night in my car. His mother did love him, in her own way. She attended the funeral and greeted me warmly. I believe she sensed my love for Nolan, just as I recognized hers. In the end, we both failed him, and I suppose that brought us together in our shared loss. Neither of us could provide him with a family.
There were no photographs from Nolan’s childhood at the funeral home—no images of the bright-eyed boy with the warm smile to remind us of what had been lost. No snapshots of him with his brothers. So, I printed some pictures 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 amid the overwhelming sense of helplessness.
Very few social workers attended the funeral, and none of his many foster mothers were present. Did they even know he had passed? Nolan spent more of his life in the system than out of it. If you take legal responsibility for a child, you should show up at his funeral. You owe it to him. If he didn’t belong to you, then who did he ever belong to?
At least his mother was there. His mother who gave birth to him. I hear the echo of his voice from so many years ago.
Somebody does love you, Nolan. I wish I could have told him. But it was too late.
Nolan was the one for me—the embodiment of all the shortcomings of a system so severely flawed that mending it would require far more than just addressing the visible wounds of the children caught within it.
They break, you know. These kids we leave behind. Eventually, they break.
For further information on adoption from the foster care system, visit the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption, and if you’re interested in home insemination, check out this resource on at-home intracervical insemination kits for fertility boosts.
Summary:
This narrative reflects on the heart-wrenching journey of a child named Nolan, who navigated foster care and the profound emotional scars it left behind. The author recounts their experiences with Nolan, highlighting the systemic failures that contributed to his tragic fate. The story serves as a poignant reminder of the importance of love, connection, and the need for a more compassionate approach to child welfare.
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