How I Changed

My Story

Today marks the seventh year that I have been in foster care.

You see, I don't like to talk. I haven't since I was taken from my mom when I was seven years old. That's probably why I don't have any friends, and have blown off every chance I have had at getting adopted.

I had a mom, at least that's what I was told. Her name was Amanda Winster. She was crazy, and had multiple run-ins with the law; mainly related to drugs. One day my mom left, but she promised she would be back soon. I waited for her so long that my neighbor found me near death from starvation in an old trailer scavenging for food. That's when I joined my first foster home in Boston, Massachusetts. I now currently live in my tenth foster home in Chicago, Illinois.

A couple years later, I found out that she was murdered and found in a ditch. Honestly, I wasn't surprised. I am not an extraordinary person, and I probably won't become one either, but I sure as hell not going to turn out like her.

I am afraid to speak. I am afraid that if I do, I'll say something wrong. I probably sound ridiculous, because I really have nothing to lose. Ultimately, I am afraid that if I speak, I will become like my mom; hated and dead.