In the quiet moments, it was the way a child’s words resonated that struck me. The rhythm of his speech lingered in my mind. “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 sat in the back of my car, still too young to sit in the front seat. At just seven years old, he had already moved more times than the years he had lived. This time, like the others before it, he packed his belongings into a trash bag. A suitcase would have lent a shred of dignity to the situation—being “placed” in yet another foster home before finishing the third grade. Trash bags are flimsy, incapable of supporting a life, especially one as delicate as his.
Eventually, those bags give way under pressure.
This particular move affected Oliver more than the rest. He believed he would stay in that home for a while; he had felt warmth there. When I arrived to pick him up, having been informed that he could no longer remain, he complied silently, head down, showing no outward reaction. It wasn’t until he was in my car that his sobs erupted, a heartbreaking sound that left me feeling utterly powerless.
“Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who gave birth to me.”
Months later, during another transition (another foster mother, another removal), he would resist fiercely, darting around the room and hiding behind furniture. But that evening, he had no fight left in him.
At nine, Oliver held tightly to his report card, his palms sweaty. We were on our way to an adoption event to meet families interested in adopting older children—families who wouldn’t dismiss a boy like Oliver because of his complicated history. He wanted to impress these strangers, to convince them he was worthy of love, bringing along his report card as proof.
No child should ever feel they have to prove their worthiness to be loved.
At twelve, Oliver confided in me that I was his best friend. I was his social worker, and he deserved a true best friend, but I kept this thought to myself. We were at a taping of Wednesday’s Child, a segment highlighting children available for adoption. On camera, Oliver was charming. Perhaps this time, he would capture someone’s heart. He was lovable, without a doubt. Yet, no family ever materialized for him.
Years later, after I had moved on from the agency, I received an email from my former supervisor containing a brief P.S. “Oliver is in custody after running away from his foster home. You need to adopt him.” My stomach sank. I had contemplated adopting him many times, but I never did.
The news of his murder reached me through a friend who saw it reported. Shot outside a gathering over a trivial dispute. He was gone at just 18, right as he was stepping into adulthood. “Not my Oliver,” I prayed. When I realized the truth—that it was indeed him—I was engulfed in a grief that left me undone.
The media barely covered his murder, treating it as a footnote. Anonymous commenters online dismissed him with derogatory remarks: “Just another gang member,” they said.
They didn’t know him. They didn’t know the boy who, as a child, used to draw letters on my back with his finger to pass the time at the doctor’s office, asking me to guess what he was spelling. “I ♥ U” he traced between my shoulders during our last game.
Oliver 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 with kindness. I think she understood the bond I had with Oliver, just as I grasped hers. In the end, we both failed him; perhaps that’s what connected us. Neither of us could provide him with a family.
There were no photographs from Oliver’s childhood displayed at the funeral home. No images of the green-eyed boy with the warm smile to remind us of what was lost. I printed snapshots of him with his brothers from a supervised visit, bringing them to the funeral to share with his family. It felt like a small gesture amid the overwhelming sense of helplessness.
Only a few social workers attended the funeral, and none of Oliver’s numerous foster mothers. Did they even know he had died? He spent more of his life in the system than outside of it. If you take legal responsibility for a child, you should show up at their funeral. You owe them that. If he didn’t belong to you, who did he belong to?
At least his mother was there, the one who gave birth to him. I hear Oliver’s voice echoing from years past.
Someone does love you, Oliver. I wish I could tell him. But it’s too late.
Oliver was the embodiment of the failures of a system so flawed that healing it would require much more than just fixing the broken bones of the children it raises.
They break, you know. These children we leave behind. Eventually, they break.
For those interested in exploring adoption from the foster care system, resources like the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption can provide valuable insights.
Summary
This narrative reflects on the poignant experiences of a social worker with a child named Oliver, who faced numerous challenges in the foster care system, ultimately leading to a tragic outcome. It highlights the deep emotional scars left by neglect and the systemic failures that leave children vulnerable. The story serves as a reminder of the importance of love and support for children in need and the impact of a broken system on their lives.
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