As a confused, rebellious early teen, I was put into the Connecticut Department of Children and Families. My siblings were old enough to have been living on their own for a while and I was the youngest, left alone between two adults that could simply not get along. Due to the issues between them, my parents were unsuited to raise me at the time. I was 14 years old and began my first year of high school in the foster system. This is a letter to the woman who has supported me as my real family for the past five years.
To the mom I got to choose, and who chose me back:
In my very untraditional, (and wild) life, thank you for accepting that while I am confusing, emotional, and sometimes reckless, I am not damaged. I have never needed to be treated like someone is sorry for me. I am capable of great things. Thank you for providing me the opportunity to do these great things. Because of you, I have experienced high school to its fullest potential and will continue to thrive.
Those who claim that you’re simply “in it for the money” do not understand that no amount of money can replace the love and care that you’ve given me through these crucial years. No check can compensate for the consistent rides to and from lacrosse, track, and show choir practices, or the cold, rainy days you’ve sat on wet bleachers to support me. No one will ever understand why you sat through two-hour long choir concerts to hear me sing songs in a language you do not and will not ever understand. No one will get it because they were not there for it, you were.
When asked to describe who I am in few words, I never mention that I was a “foster kid.” This is not because I am ashamed of my life, it is because I live a life that most foster kids would dream of: a normal one. In high school, I was given the opportunity to do extracurriculars and explore my passions. Standing on my own two feet as a freshman in college was easier knowing that whatever choices I made, you’d be 100 percent behind me, cheering me on with pom poms in hand (and probably screaming at the top of your lungs, like you’d cheer at every single lacrosse and football game). While I can be an annoying, spoiled brat, please know that everything you’ve done has not gone unnoticed. I love you.
Love always,
Angi
