One evening after a parent-teacher conference at Isanti Elementary, I saw a young woman holding a pamphlet in the hallway. Most people walked past, avoiding her. I assumed she was selling something or recruiting for a club. When I walked nearer, I could hear her inviting parents to share their thoughts on foster care. Normally, I felt like I could barely keep up with my own kids, but something made me stop and listen. She talked about how important foster families are, and even my usually fidgety first grader stood still and listened.
We went home, and I told my husband, “We’re going to foster!” I expected him to say no, but he just smiled and nodded.
After the licensing process, the same social worker from the school called about a nine-year-old boy, Zackary, whose parents needed a break. He was older than our kids, and fear set in. But it was just a weekend, so we agreed.
Before his visit, we met his mom, Rachel, who warned us about his behavior—breaking things, hiding knives, lighting fires, tormenting siblings. Her words were heavy, but the one that stuck with me was, “He’s never good enough to get a reward.”
When Zack arrived, he was polite, kind, and nothing like the picture we’d been given. He said he’d eat anything, though his favorite was taco Hamburger Helper. We made it that night, and he was thrilled. Slowly, he became a regular part of our lives.
One day, he broke his arm trying new shoes with wheels. At the hospital, I watched him desperately seek his mother’s attention and get none. It was obvious they weren’t sure how to reach out or relate.
Eventually, concerns grew and CPS got involved. He moved in with us full time.
At first, we weren’t ready to adopt. I held onto hope his mom could turn things around. But after a stormy night when Zack called, scared and hiding in the driveway, my husband told him, “You always belong here.” Zack asked, “Will you adopt me?” This time, the answer was yes.
Today, Zack is in college, volunteers at a local farm, works alongside me in catering, and graduated high school with honors. It was obvious they weren’t sure how to reach out or relate.
He never finished telling us what happened that night, but it didn’t matter. He had found his home, and we had found the piece of our family we didn’t know was missing.
