Ever since I was young, I've been in the Foster system. Home after home.
When I was five, my parents divorced and so I moved in with my mom. The breakup got her depressed, so she began doing drugs. She also started hitting me, and was soon arrested.
When I moved in with my dad, it went pretty good. He had a nice girlfriend, and all was well. After about five months of living in his house, he died in a car crash. No other family members wanted to take me in.
It was at this point that I began being in the Foster system. My first home was okay, I spent a year there until I had to leave due to the mom's medical issues. The next five families basically just beat me, and when reported, I was taken out, and put in another. My current home wasn't horrible, but wasn't great. Considering the parents left for a two night vacation six days ago.
Suddenly, there was a knock at my door. I opened it, to see the man who manages my Foster care, Steve.
Oh no, I thought.
"Well hello there!" He said, then realized the sadness in my face. "You see, your current foster parents said they couldn't care for you anymore."
"So, you're saying they pretty much ditched me?" I replied. "They just left me saying it was a vacation, and they're not coming back?"
He gave me a slight nod. I was pretty mad. But, what can you do? I learned that the hard way.
I packed a quick bag, of everything I own, which was practically nothing. Just a bunch of long sleeve shirts. I got in Steve's car, and off we went.
I was now on the way to my eighth foster home, hopefully the last, but doubtfully.
Steve stopped at Starbucks, and we each got something to drink. We made some small conversation, but nothing much. It was extremely awkward. We soon arrived at a wonderful house.
"Ah, the Evans house." Steve said, giving me a big smile.
Evans. I thought. That last name sounds so familiar.
Steve knocked on the front door, and it slowly opened.
