From a foster dad.

From a foster dad.


Sometimes at bedtime, a foster kid weeps, “I am separated from everyone I love.”

And though we love him more than words, I know he is accurate, too. Because he wants the love he used to know.

“I forget sometimes,” I whisper.

He whispers back, “I never do.”

He slaps himself on the face, creating pain outside that is less than his pain inside. A pain he can manage.

I hold him until he falls asleep.

And then I walk down the hall. Into my room, into my closet, and double over into a ball on the carpet.

Weeping for this little one. For the pain he carries.

And for bravery he teaches me.

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