#foster child

I FUCKING HATE WHEN THEY BRING UP FOSTER CARE IN FUCKING POLITICAL OR WHATEVER RANTS TO MAKE ONE SIDE LOOKS BAD.

NO I DONT WANT TO BE A EXAMPLE FOR A REASON TO ABORT A CHILD.

NO I DONT WONT ANYTHING TO DO WITH POLTICAL SHIT. BUT NO THEY HAVVVVEE TOO.

The depressing thoughts I thought I've outgrew come back resurfacing whenever im in the brink of my period, and honestly, I wish I dont have to feel it again.

I am a fostered child, usually ppl gets a new love with a foster family but mine would probably be the contrary. Its hard to outgrew the trauma of continuously being shoved right in front of your face, how you are adopted and u should be just obedient to them. Now these people act as righteously and you just cant stomach that they get to treat you that way and be done with it.

Im supposed to be a working adult now, and i do work at school so I believe I get a pass on household chores right?! I do not get paid for a 7am - 4pm work and yet every single day I have to clean up the mess of the very ppl who gave me a childhood trauma.

Part of me feels distant from Baby Henry. I care about him a lot, I don’t want anything bad to happen to him, I know I am committed to him staying here however long he needs. But there’s more of a distance than with my other kids.

Maybe it’s because there is so much uncertainty and I’m much more hardened by foster care now. So the desperation and relief of the early years of fostering have been replaced by resignation? Maybe that’s maturity or maybe it’s disillusionment.

Baby Henry has already reunified once, which failed badly. He’s been in my home for 18 months this time, but he could still reunify. If a safe reunification was possible, I truly think I’d be okay with that. I’d be sad, but not devastated. That makes me wonder…

But parents do love their kids differently. I know people like to say they love all their kids equally, but research has repeatedly shown that’s not actually true. You can love all your kids, but you can’t love them all identically, simply by virtue of the fact that they’re not the same person.

I’m not sure where I’m going with this, maybe the fact that a newborn is likely joining this drama makes the reality of forever more likely? But I also believe nothing.

And, my god, what happens if that baby is removed? What happens if she stays?

The next morning, Dua went to war.She began with silence. The kind that fills rooms like smoke. At breakfast, she scraped her spoon loudly, stared at her cereal like it had betrayed her, and said nothing. Laura asked if she wanted toast. Dua didn’t answer. Tom asked if she liked music. She got up and left the table.Strike one.Later, when Laura tried small talk while folding laundry, Dua casually knocked the basket over on her way to the bathroom. Didn’t even look back.Strike two.Then came the third — the one that burned.That evening, Laura showed Dua a photo album. Old pictures of her and Tom, smiles full of hope. Their wedding. Their dog. Their dreams. Dua flipped through it, bored, until she reached the last page — a blank one, clearly meant to start this chapter.“You really think I’m gonna end up in here?” she scoffed.“I hoped so,” Laura said gently.Dua smiled — a cold, twisted one. “My mother died hating me. My last foster parent locked me outside one night. You really want that in your photo book?”Tom looked up sharply from across the room. Laura's hand paused.“Don’t try to pretend I’m anything but poison,” Dua said, standing up. “You’ll both get tired. Everyone does.”And she walked out again.But this time, Laura didn’t follow.This time, Laura let her go — not because she gave up……but because she knew:Walls only fall when you stop trying to tear them down — and start letting them burn.

________________________

Title: Bitter Roots, Fragile Wings

The rain came down hard the day Dua met Laura and Tom. It hadn't been raining when the social worker dropped her off, but somehow the clouds seemed to follow her everywhere — like shadows she couldn’t outrun.She stood at the edge of the porch, arms crossed tight, chin raised in that proud, defiant way that screamed don’t try me. Laura opened the door first, all sunshine smile and soft eyes. Tom stood behind, nervous hands in his pockets."Hi, Dua," Laura said, stepping out. "We’re really glad to—""Save it," Dua snapped, walking past her and into the house like it was a motel room. Temporary. Cold.Inside, she dropped her bag with a loud thud on the wooden floor. The place looked clean, smelled like cinnamon and fresh paint — too clean, too fake. A staged home for a broken girl.She already hated it.Later that night, while Tom fixed the broken drawer in her room and Laura laid out dinner, Dua slipped out the back door. Quiet like she'd done before. Silent like a wound.But this time, someone followed.And that’s where the war began — between the girl who trusted no one, and the couple too stubborn to let her fall again.

Thank you for your generations donations of children’s books! If you have any new or gently used children’s books there is still time to donate them to children that could use them! The books will be delivered to local Youth Courts, CPS playrooms and the children they serve. You may drop off books at the Madison, Ridgeland and Canton libraries or the Thompson Law Firm at 2060 Main Street in…