In the realm of social work, certain phrases resonate deeply, etching themselves into memory. One such moment arose when a young boy, no older than seven, uttered a heartbreaking statement: “Nobody loves me. Not even my mom who gave birth to me.” The weight of this expression struck me, particularly in the way he articulated it—a rhythm of despair tinged with the innocence of childhood.
He was secured in the backseat of my car, too young for the front, and burdened by a past marked by instability; this was a child who had transitioned more times than his years on this planet. On this occasion, he held his possessions in a garbage bag. A suitcase might have lent a semblance of dignity to the process of being “placed” in yet another foster home before reaching the third grade. However, garbage bags are fragile and can’t bear the weight of a life, especially one as delicate as his. They rip and tear under pressure, much like the lives of children in similar circumstances.
This particular move weighed heavily on Stephen. He believed he had found a place to belong, a home where he felt cared for. Yet, when I arrived to pick him up following the notice from his foster mother, he exhibited no outward reaction. It was only once he was in my vehicle that the dam broke, and his sobs filled the car, an echo of profound sorrow. “Nobody loves me. Not even my mom who gave birth to me,” he choked out, the pain evident in his voice.
Months later, in a similar scenario—another foster mother, another abrupt departure—he resisted fiercely, darting around a living room and hiding behind furniture. But on that particular night, he was devoid of fight.
Fast forward to nine-year-old Stephen, clutching his report card with clammy hands as we approached an adoption event intended for older children. He wanted to impress prospective families, to demonstrate he was worthy of love. He brought his good grades as proof of his value. But no child should ever have to validate their worthiness of love in such a way.
At twelve, Stephen confided in me that I was his best friend. As his social worker, I recognized he deserved a true companion, yet I held my tongue. We were at a taping for a program spotlighting children eligible for adoption. Stephen shone on camera, hoping against hope that this would be the time someone would choose him. Despite his charm and lovable nature, no family came forward.
Years later, long after I departed from the agency, I received an email from my former supervisor. It contained a brief update on Stephen, revealing he was in a youth detention facility after fleeing his foster home. My heart sank; I had often contemplated adopting him myself, yet I had not acted on that impulse.
I learned of his tragic death from a friend who spotted it in the news. He had been shot outside a party over a trivial dispute, his life extinguished at just 18. I prayed, “Not my Stephen.” But as reality set in and I comprehended the loss, I was overwhelmed with grief, the kind that paralyzes.
The media gave scant attention to his murder, treating it as a mere footnote. Strangers online disparaged him, labeling him “just another gangbanger.” They didn’t know him. They couldn’t possibly grasp the gentle boy who would trace letters on my back during doctor visits, playfully asking me to guess what he was writing: “I ♥ U.”
That night in my car, Stephen was mistaken. His mother did love him, albeit in her own flawed way. She was present at the funeral, greeting me warmly. I sensed an unspoken understanding between us—both of us had failed him, a bond formed through shared loss. We could not provide him with the family he needed.
At the funeral, there were no photographs of Stephen as a child, no snapshots of the green-eyed boy with a warm smile, no reminders of what had been lost. I felt compelled to print pictures from supervised visits with his brothers and presented them to his mother. It was a small gesture, but in the face of profound loss, it felt necessary.
Few social workers attended, nor did any of his numerous foster mothers show up. Did they even know he was gone? Stephen spent more of his childhood in the system than outside it. If you take on the legal responsibility of a child, you owe it to them to show up when it matters most. If he wasn’t yours, then who did he ever belong to?
At least his mother was there, the one who gave him life. I hear his words echo still: “Nobody loves me.” If only I could tell him now, “Somebody does love you, Stephen.” But it’s too late.
Stephen embodied the failures of a system so fractured that true healing requires more than temporary fixes. These children, the ones we abandon, they break. And eventually, they shatter.
For more information on adoption from the foster care system, visit the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption.
Summary
The narrative reflects on the heart-wrenching experiences of a social worker who wishes they could have communicated love and belonging to a child named Stephen, whom they didn’t adopt. It highlights the struggles of children in the foster care system, emphasizing the systemic failures that lead to tragic outcomes. The emotional weight of the story serves as a poignant reminder of the importance of love and family for every child.