He came to them needing a house; he stayed and built a home, and together they turned a spare room into a future. They spent years working with kids in their city through a small outreach connected to the church he pastored. Over a decade, they saw so many stories up close: latchkey afternoons, empty fridges, children left to raise themselves. They knew the numbers and what they often meant for Black boys and little brown kids in the system. They also had a spare bedroom and steady love. So they got licensed to foster.
The first call brought a baby boy, and their hearts stretched. Then another call came six months later for a kindergartner who immediately needed a new home. He had already lived with a woman he called his foster grandmother, but she could not continue. It was called a disruption, a tidy word for a tough moment in a small child’s life. His caseworker sounded rushed and blunt. She said she needed a pre-adoption home and asked them to decide quickly. They understood why. Older Black boys are too often the last to be chosen. They said yes. He arrived with dimples, a cartoon bright voice, and more potential than any file could capture. His previous caregiver had kept him on track with school, and it showed. But life got busy and complicated overnight. Two placements meant two sets of caseworkers, court dates, appointments, and therapy sessions.
He asked questions no five-year-old should have to carry. Will I move again? Will I see my family? He was watching to see if the promises would stick. He arrived with dimples, a cartoon bright voice, and more potential than any file could capture. His previous caregiver had kept him on track with school, and it showed. But life got busy and complicated overnight. Two placements meant two sets of caseworkers, court dates, appointments, and therapy sessions. He asked questions no five-year-old should have to carry. Will I move again? Will I see my family? He was watching to see if the promises would stick.
They reminded themselves of what their training had said. Love matters, but love alone is not a plan. Foster care is born from loss, so you lead with empathy and patience. You accept that the good days may arrive slowly. He called their dad “dad” within a week. “Mom” took time, and that was fine. Trust grows one small proof at a time. There were challenging moments. Boundaries to relearn. Fears to name. But something steady set in. He relaxed into the rhythms of a home that would not vanish overnight. They kept showing up. He kept leaning in. The family they had imagined began to take shape right in front of them.
Six months after he moved in, the caseworker said he was legally free for adoption. There was no long list of obstacles this time. It felt like the system was exhaling. Ten months from the day he first walked through their door, he became their son. There were no more disruptions. There were no more suitcases at the ready. That was four years ago. Today, he is a fourth grader who devours books and collects school awards, outpacing the predictions that once hovered over his name. He is what happens when a child’s future meets stability, patience, and a community that believes in him.
If they could say one thing to anyone considering fostering, it would be this. Do not only picture a baby. Picture the middle schooler who jokes to hide worry. Picture the teen who has learned not to ask for anything. Open your door to the kids people overlook. You are not just meeting a need for today. You are planting years of safety and possibility into someone’s life. They still run the outreach. They still see the need. But now they also see their son at the kitchen table with a novel bigger than his backpack, proof that statistics are not destiny when a child finally gets to land.
