It was the way he spoke that struck me. The rhythm of his words, the sharpness of his tone. “Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who brought me into this world.”
Such a peculiar expression, isn’t it? Not even my mother who brought me into this world.
He was fastened in the backseat of my car, still too young to ride up front. At seven, he had already switched homes more times than years he had lived. And this time, like the others, he carried his belongings in a trash bag. A suitcase would have lent a shred of dignity to the process of being “placed” in yet another foster home before even reaching the third grade. Trash bags tear, after all. They cannot possibly hold the weight of a life, especially a life as delicate as his.
This move was particularly tough for Liam. He had hoped to stay in the home he was leaving, as he had felt some warmth there. When I arrived to pick him up, after his foster mother indicated he could no longer remain, he complied with me, head down, a mask of silence. It was only once he was in my car that the sobs came—deep, heart-wrenching sounds that left me feeling utterly powerless.
He could barely articulate it. Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who brought me into this world.
Months later, in a similar scenario (another foster mother, another goodbye), he would resist fiercely. He dashed around the living room, hiding behind furniture, determined not to go. But on this night, he had no fight left in him.
That was Liam at seven.
Fast forward to nine, and Liam clutched his report card, damp with nervous sweat. We were on our way to an adoption event, a chance to meet families who were open to adopting older children, families who might not shy away from a boy like Liam, with all his “history.” He wanted to impress these strangers, to show them he was worthy of love, so he brought his good report card as proof.
No child should have to validate their worthiness for love.
At twelve, Liam confided in me that I was his best friend. I was his social worker, and he deserved a real best friend, but I kept this thought to myself. We were at a taping of Wednesday’s Child, a segment that showcased children available for adoption. Liam was charming on camera. Maybe this time someone would choose him. Maybe he could demonstrate, at twelve, that he was indeed a boy deserving of love. And he was lovable, truly. But it never seemed to be enough. A family never came.
Years later, long after I had departed the agency, I received an email from my former boss checking in on me. In a brief postscript, they mentioned, “Liam is in DYS lockup after running away from his foster home. You really should adopt him.” My heart sank. I had thought about it countless times. I should adopt him myself. But I didn’t.
I learned of his tragic end from a friend who saw it on the news. Shot outside a party over a petty argument. Gone at 18, just as he was about to step into adulthood. Not my Liam, I prayed. But when I realized it truly was him—there was no denying it—I broke down, overwhelmed by a sorrow that left me feeling hollow.
The news barely covered the incident, treating it as an afterthought. Anonymous commenters on social media dismissed him as “just another gangbanger.”
You don’t even know him. You don’t know anything about this boy. You don’t recall the times he would trace letters onto my back to pass the time at the doctor’s office, asking me to guess what he was spelling. “I ♥ U,” he traced last, nestled between my shoulder blades during our last game.
Liam was mistaken that night in my car. His mother did love him, in her own way. She was present at the funeral, greeting me warmly. I believe she understood the bond I had with Liam, just as I sensed her affection. We both failed him in the end, and that connection bound us. Neither of us could provide him with a family.
At the funeral, there were no photographs from Liam’s childhood. No images of the green-eyed boy with the infectious smile to remind us of what we had lost. No snapshots of Liam with his brothers, so I printed out some pictures from a supervised visit and brought them to the funeral to give to his family. It was a small gesture amid a sea of helplessness.
Only a handful of social workers were there, and none of Liam’s numerous foster mothers. Did they even know he had passed? He spent more of his life within the system than outside it. If you take legal responsibility for a child, you should show up at their funeral. You owe them that much. If he didn’t belong to you, then who did he ever belong to?
His mother was there, at least. The one who brought him into this world. I still hear his voice echoing from all those years ago.
Somebody does love you, Liam. I wish I could tell him. But unfortunately, it’s too late.
Liam represented for me the embodiment of a broken system, one so flawed that to mend it would require more than just superficial fixes.
They break, you know. These children we leave behind. Eventually, they break.
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In summary, Liam’s story illustrates the deep failures of a system that allowed him to slip away, highlighting the urgent need for compassion and genuine commitment to children in foster care. He was a precious soul who deserved so much more than he received.