You see the picture I post on Facebook of two boys walking down the street, hand-in-hand, and you leave a comment describing it as “joyful.” You are happy for us, you are happy for them—for that one boy in particular.
You’re thinking: he’s lucky. He’s lucky to have landed with a real family. He’s lucky to have secured safety, love and opportunity, when so many other children in foster care will not.
You note how comfortable those boys look side-by-side, how much they already look like brothers. You know we hope to adopt the 9-year-old, who is actually our second foster-to-adopt placement. You know how much that means to the 6-year-old, our biological son, who knows what it feels like to say goodbye to someone he calls “brother” and who wants nothing more than a sibling who will stay forever. You see this picture of five black fingers entwined with five white fingers as proof that in a volatile world, hope abounds. You see a happy ending.
But this picture isn’t an ending. For my foster son, it represents yet another beginning in a long line of beginnings.