Foster Family Made Me Live Under Stairs Throughout My Childhood – Later, They Crawled to My Door on Their Knees

I was eight when I arrived at their house.

They called it a “placement.” I called it another beginning I didn’t get to choose.

Their house looked ordinary from the outside. It had two stories, a neatly trimmed lawn, and a ceramic angel by the mailbox.

The kind of home that made social workers nod approvingly before they even stepped inside.