Something about the way he expressed his feelings struck a chord with me. It was the rhythm of his words, the sharpness of his delivery.
“Nobody loves me. Not even the mother who brought me into this world.”
Isn’t that a peculiar way to put it? Not even the mother who brought me into this world.
He was secured in the backseat of my Toyota, still too young to sit in the front. At just seven years old, he had already changed homes more times than years he had lived. This time, like the previous ones, he carried his belongings in a trash bag. A suitcase would have at least lent a shred of dignity to the experience of being shuffled from one foster home to another before even finishing third grade. Trash bags tear easily; they can’t possibly hold the weight of a life, especially one as delicate as his.
This particular move was harder for Oliver than the others. He had thought he would stay in this home for a while. He had felt cared for there. When I arrived to pick him up, following his foster mother’s notice that he could no longer remain, he complied without a word, head down and seemingly indifferent. It was only once he settled into my car that he broke down, sobbing in a way that left me feeling utterly helpless.
“Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who brought me into this world.”
Months later, during another removal (another foster mother, another goodbye), he would resist. He would dash around the living room, hiding behind furniture, refusing to leave. But on this night, there was no fight left in him.
That was Oliver at seven.
At nine, Oliver clutched his report card with clammy hands. We were on our way to an adoption event where families interested in adopting older children might meet him; families who wouldn’t dismiss a boy like Oliver because of his complicated “history.” He wanted to impress these strangers, to show them he was worth loving, so he brought along his good report card as tangible proof.
No child should ever have to prove their worthiness of love.
When he turned twelve, Oliver confided 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. We were at a taping for a segment called “Wednesday’s Child,” a feature showcasing children available for adoption. Oliver was charming on camera, hoping this time someone might choose him. At twelve, he was trying to demonstrate that he was loveable. And he was, truly. But it wasn’t enough. A family never came.
Years later, after I had left the agency, I received an email from my former supervisor inquiring about my well-being, and ending with a brief P.S.: “Oliver is in DYS lockup after running away from his foster home. You need to adopt him.” My heart sank. I had contemplated adopting him myself many times. But I didn’t.
I learned about his death from a friend who had seen it reported. He was shot outside a party over a trivial dispute. Gone at 18, just as he was stepping into manhood. Not my Oliver, I prayed. But when I realized it truly was him, that it could be no one else, I was engulfed in a grief that left me immobile.
The media barely covered his murder, treating it as an afterthought. Anonymous commentators online posted cruel remarks: “Just another gangbanger,” they said.
You don’t even know him. You don’t understand the first thing about this boy. You don’t know that as a child, he would trace letters on my back in waiting rooms, urging me to guess what he was spelling. “I ♥ U” he traced between my shoulders—the last time we played this game.
That night in my car, Oliver had been mistaken. His mother did love him, in her own way. She was present at the funeral, greeting me warmly. I think she sensed my love for Oliver, just as I recognized hers. In the end, we both failed him, and that connection bound us, I suppose. Neither of us could provide him with a family.
At the funeral home, there were no childhood photos of Oliver. No images of the green-eyed boy with the warm smile to remind us of what had been lost. No pictures of him with his siblings. So, I printed snapshots of the four boys taken during a supervised visit and brought them to the funeral to share with his family. It was a small gesture in the vast sea of helplessness.
Only a handful of social workers attended the funeral, and none of his many foster mothers. Were they even aware of his death? Oliver spent more of his life in the system than out of it. If you assume legal responsibility for a child, you ought to show up at their funeral. You owe it to them. And if he didn’t belong to you, then who did he ever belong to?
At least his mother was there, the one who brought him into this world. I can still hear his voice from years gone by.
Somebody 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 fractured that healing it would require much more than fixing the physical injuries of the children caught in its grip.
They break, you know. These children we leave behind. Eventually, they break.
For more information on adoption from the foster care system, visit the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption.
Oliver is a fictional name for a real boy the world lost.
This article was originally published on Oct. 25, 2014.
Summary:
This poignant narrative reflects on the experiences of a social worker with a young boy named Oliver, who navigates the foster care system. It captures the profound impact of neglect and the longing for love that many children in the system endure. Despite the efforts made to find him a family, Oliver’s life takes a tragic turn, highlighting the systemic failures that often leave children vulnerable and broken. The story serves as a reminder of the importance of love and support for vulnerable children.