There was something haunting about his words, a rhythmic quality that struck me deeply. “Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who brought me into this world.”
It’s a peculiar way to express such profound hurt, isn’t it?
He was strapped into the back of my little car, far too young to sit in the front. At just seven, he had already moved more times than years he had lived. Each time, his possessions were crammed into a trash bag; a suitcase would have offered at least a hint of dignity in the ordeal of being shuffled from one foster home to another before even finishing elementary school. Trash bags tear, after all. They can’t possibly contain the weight of a life, especially one as delicate as his.
This latest move was particularly tough for Alex. It felt like a home he might actually stay in for a while, a place where he had begun to feel a sense of belonging. When I arrived to pick him up after his foster mother had given notice, he came with me without a fuss; his head hung low, betraying nothing on the surface. But once he was in my car, the dam broke, and he sobbed in a way that made my heart ache.
“Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who brought me into this world.”
Months later, in a different scenario (yet another foster mother, yet another departure), he would resist. He would dash around the living room, hiding behind furniture, unwilling to leave. But that night, he was too exhausted to fight.
That was Alex at seven.
Fast forward to nine, and Alex held his report card tightly, his palms damp with nervousness. We were on our way to an adoption event, where families interested in adopting older children would be. He desperately wanted to impress these strangers, hoping to win their hearts with proof of his worth—his glowing report card.
A child should never feel the need to prove their value.
By the time he turned twelve, Alex confided in me that I was his best friend. I was his social worker, and he deserved a true best friend, but I kept that thought to myself. There we were, at the taping of a segment for Wednesday’s Child, showcasing children in need of adoption. On camera, he was lively and engaging. Perhaps this would be the time someone would choose him. He tried to show that he was lovable, and he truly was. But it wasn’t enough. The family he longed for never arrived.
Years later, after I had left the agency, I received a message from my former boss. It simply said, “Alex is in DYS lockup after running away from his foster home. You need to adopt him.” My heart sank. I had entertained that thought countless times. But I didn’t follow through.
The news of his murder reached me from a friend who saw it online. He was shot outside a party over a trivial dispute. He was gone at only 18, right as he was stepping into adulthood. I prayed it wasn’t my Alex, but when I learned it was, I was overwhelmed with a grief that left me utterly defeated.
The media barely covered the incident, as if it were a footnote. Anonymous commenters online dismissed him with cruel labels like “just another gangbanger.”
They didn’t know him. They didn’t know the boy who, as a child, would trace letters on my back during doctor’s visits, asking me to guess the words he was spelling out. “I ♥ U” he traced between my shoulder blades, the last time we played that game.
In truth, Alex’s mother did love him, in her own way. She was there at the funeral, greeting me with warmth. I sensed she understood the bond I had with him as well. We both failed him in the end, which somehow connected us. Neither of us could provide him with the family he so desperately needed.
There were no childhood photos of Alex at the funeral. No pictures of the green-eyed boy with the infectious smile. To honor his memory, I printed snapshots of him with his brothers from a supervised visit and brought them to share with the family. It was a small gesture amidst a sea of helplessness.
Few social workers attended the funeral, and none of his many foster mothers. Did they even know he had passed? Alex had spent more time in the system than out of it. If you’re responsible for a child’s well-being, you should show up for them when it matters most. They were entrusted with his care, and if they didn’t truly belong to him, then who did?
At least his mother was there. The one who brought him into this world. I can still hear his voice echoing from years ago.
“Somebody does love you, Alex,” I wish I could have told him. But it was too late.
Alex was the embodiment of all the failures of a system so broken that healing it would require far more than temporary fixes.
These children we leave behind—eventually, they break.
For more insights into adoption from the foster care system, you can check out the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption.
Alex is a fictional name representing a real boy whose life was tragically cut short.
In summary, the story of Alex serves as a poignant reminder of the vulnerabilities faced by children in the foster care system, illustrating the urgent need for a compassionate approach to adoption and support. His life reflects the systemic failures that can lead to heartbreak, urging us to advocate for those who cannot advocate for themselves.