PART 1 — THE PROPOSAL

I grew up in foster care.

That sounds like one sentence.

It was actually dozens of addresses.

Plastic trash bags full of clothes.

Bedrooms I was told not to decorate because the placement might not last.

Adults saying:

“We’ll see how things go.”

And eventually:

“This just isn’t working out.”

By eighteen, I understood something I probably should not have understood that young.

A roof can disappear.

A family can change its mind.

Security is sometimes nothing more than another person continuing to say yes.

The only good thing foster care gave me was Julian.

We met in a group home when we were teenagers.

He was two years older.

Funny.

Gentle.