Parenting Reflection
It was the way he spoke that really struck me. The rhythm of his words, the punctuated emotion behind them. “Nobody loves me. Not even my mom who brought me into this world.” It’s an unsettling phrase, isn’t it? Not even my mom who brought me into this world.
He was securely fastened in the backseat of my car, too young to sit in the front. At just seven years old, he had already changed homes more times than the years he had lived. This time, like the others, he carried his belongings in a trash bag. A suitcase would have offered a hint of dignity to his situation, a sense of belonging as he was moved from one foster home to another before even reaching third grade. Trash bags tear easily; they can’t possibly hold the weight of a life—especially a life so fragile.
This move was particularly difficult for a boy named Oliver. He had hoped this home might be permanent, where he felt cared for. When I arrived to pick him up after his foster mother decided he could no longer stay, he came quietly, his head down, showing no outward emotion. It was only once he was in my car that his tears began to flow, a heartbreaking sound that left me feeling utterly helpless.
“Nobody loves me. Not even my mom who brought me into this world.” Months later, during another transition, he would resist more fiercely, darting around the living room, hiding behind furniture, unwilling to leave. But on this evening, he was too defeated to fight back.
At nine, Oliver clutched his report card in clammy hands as we headed to an adoption event. This gathering was intended for families looking to adopt older children, families who might look past his extensive “history.” He wanted to impress these strangers, to show them he was deserving of love, bringing along evidence of his worth—a good report card. No child should ever have to prove they are worthy of love.
By twelve, Oliver declared me his best friend. I was his social worker, and he deserved a true best friend, but I kept that thought to myself. We were at a taping for a segment called “Wednesday’s Child,” showcasing children awaiting adoption. Oliver was engaging on camera; maybe this time, someone would choose him. He was lovable, without a doubt, but it never seemed to be enough. A family never came for him.
Years later, long after I had left the agency, I received an email from my former supervisor checking in. The message ended with a brief note: “Oliver is in DYS lockup after running away from his foster home. You should adopt him.” My heart sank. I had thought this many times before—I should adopt him myself. But I didn’t.
I learned of his tragic death from a friend who had seen it reported. Shot at a party over some trivial dispute, he was gone at eighteen, just as he was stepping into manhood. “Not my Oliver,” I prayed. But when the truth dawned on me, I was engulfed in despair.
The news coverage was minimal, almost an afterthought. Anonymous commenters made cruel remarks online, dismissing him with phrases like “just another gangbanger.” They didn’t know him. They didn’t know how, as a child, he would trace letters onto my back with his finger while we waited at the doctor’s office, playfully asking me to guess the phrase he was spelling. The last time we played this game, he traced “I ♥ U” between my shoulder blades.
That night in my car, Oliver had been mistaken. His mother did care for him, in her own way. She was present at his funeral and greeted me warmly, perhaps recognizing that we both loved him in different ways. In the end, we both failed him. Neither of us could provide him with a family.
At the funeral home, there were no photographs from Oliver’s childhood. No images of the green-eyed boy with a radiant smile to remind us of what had been lost. I printed snapshots of Oliver with his brothers from a supervised visit and brought them to share with his family. It was a small gesture, a flicker of light in a sea of darkness.
Few social workers attended the funeral, nor did any of Oliver’s many foster mothers. Did they even know he had died? He 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 when they pass. If he didn’t belong to you, then who did he ever belong to?
At least his mother was there. The one who gave him life. I hear the echo of his words from so long ago.
Somebody does love you, Oliver. I wish I could tell him. But the moment has passed.
Oliver represented all the failures of a system so deeply flawed that rectifying it would require much more than merely mending the physical wounds of the children within it. They break, you know. These children we leave behind. Eventually, they break.
For more on adoption from the foster care system, visit the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption or check out some insights on couples’ fertility journeys. For those looking to boost their fertility, this resource is a great starting point. If you’re seeking more information on pregnancy and home insemination, the CDC offers excellent resources on the topic.
Summary
This piece reflects on the profound impact of a broken foster care system through the story of a child named Oliver. It captures the emotional weight of his experiences and the shared responsibility of those who cared for him, ultimately highlighting the tragedy of lost potential and the need for a more compassionate approach to child welfare.
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