It was the way he expressed it that struck a chord with me. The rhythm and tone of his words resonated deeply. “Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who brought me into this world.”
Isn’t that a peculiar expression? Not even my mother who brought me into this world.
He was secured in the backseat of my Honda, still too young to sit in the front. At just seven, he had changed homes more times than the years he had lived. This time, like the others, he arrived with his belongings packed in a trash bag. A suitcase would have added a touch of dignity to his situation – to being “placed” in yet another foster home before even reaching the third grade. Trash bags tear easily, you know. They can’t hold the weight of a life, especially not one as delicate as his. Eventually, they give way under pressure.
This transition was particularly tough for young Ethan. He believed he would stay in this home for a while. He had felt love there. When I arrived to pick him up, after his foster mother had announced he could no longer stay, he came with me without hesitation; his head hung low, his exterior revealing no emotion. It was only once he was in my car that he began to weep, the kind of heart-wrenching sob that leaves you feeling utterly spent.
He struggled to voice it. “Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who brought me into this world.”
Months later, in a similar scene (another foster mother, another removal), he would resist. He would dash around the living room, hiding behind furniture, unwilling to leave. But that night, he had no fight left in him.
That was Ethan at seven.
Fast forward to nine-year-old Ethan, clutching his report card in clammy hands. We were on our way to an adoption event, where families interested in adopting older children would be waiting. Families who wouldn’t dismiss a boy like Ethan because of his long “history.” He wanted to impress these strangers, to win them over, bringing along his good report card as proof that he was a child deserving of love.
No child should ever have to prove their worthiness for love.
At twelve, Ethan told me I was his best friend. I was his social worker, and he deserved a true best friend, but I didn’t say that to him. We were at a taping for a segment called Wednesday’s Child, showcasing children available for adoption. Ethan was charming on camera. Perhaps this time, someone would choose him. At twelve, he was trying to demonstrate that he was a boy worth loving. And he was truly lovable. Yet, it wasn’t enough. A family never came for him.
Years later, after I had moved on from the agency, I received an email from my former boss checking in and adding a disheartening P.S. “Ethan is in DYS lockup after running away from his foster home. You need to adopt him.” My heart sank. I had considered that possibility countless times. I should adopt him. But I didn’t.
I learned of his tragic death from a friend who saw it in the news. Shot outside a party over some trivial dispute. Gone at eighteen, just as he was stepping into adulthood. Not my Ethan, I prayed. But when I realized it truly was him – that it could be no other – I was overwhelmed with a sorrow that left me feeling lifeless.
The media barely covered the murder, as if it were a mere footnote. Anonymous commenters online spewed vile remarks: “Just another thug,” they claimed.
You don’t even know him. You don’t know the first thing about this boy. You don’t know that, as a child, he would trace letters on my back with his finger during our visits to the doctor, asking me to guess the phrases he was spelling. “I ♥ U” he traced between my shoulders, the last time we played that game.
Ethan had been mistaken that night in my Honda. His mother did love him, in her own way. She was present at the funeral. She greeted me warmly, perhaps recognizing that I loved Ethan just as she did. We both failed him in the end, and that bonded us, I suppose. Neither of us could give him the family he so desperately needed.
There were no childhood photos of Ethan at the funeral home. No images of the green-eyed boy with the infectious smile to remind us of what had been lost. No pictures of Ethan with his siblings, so I printed snapshots of the four boys together from a supervised visit and brought them to the funeral for his family. It was something I could do in the face of an overwhelming sense of helplessness.
Very few social workers attended the funeral, and none of his many foster mothers. Did they even know he was gone? Ethan spent more of his life in the system than outside it. If you assume legal responsibility for a child, you should show up at their funeral. You owe them that respect. And if he didn’t belong to you, then who did he ever belong to?
His mother was there, at least. His mother who brought him into this world. I hear the echo of his voice from those many years ago.
Somebody does love you, Ethan. I wish I could tell him. But it’s too late.
Ethan was the one for me. He embodied the failures of a system so broken that healing it would require far more than mending the literal broken bones of the children raised within it.
They break, you know. These children we leave behind. Eventually, they break.
For information on adoption from the foster care system, check out the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption.
Ethan is a fictional name for a real boy the world lost.
Summary:
This poignant reflection tells the story of Ethan, a boy in the foster care system who faced numerous challenges and ultimately met a tragic fate. The narrative highlights the emotional struggles of children in care, their quest for love, and the failures of the system that is meant to protect them. Through the lens of the author’s experiences, it underscores the importance of love and belonging for every child and calls attention to the impact of neglect and abandonment.