My bags are packed and hidden deep in my closet, ready to go the following morning. I have all my travel information planned out, the details written down and tucked in an envelope in my suitcase. Now I just have this one final thing to do. The single hardest thing I’ll ever have to do in my life. And the most necessary. As I sit waiting at a stop light, I notice a couple about my age—still in high school—walking down the sidewalk. They’re huddled under a red umbrella, laughing. He has his hand tucked in her jeans pocket, and then he leans in and kisses her. Seeing their happiness only makes my heart plummet further, reminding me that I could have had the same thing. If only my life had turned out entirely different. I’d sensed something was off the first week I arrived at my current foster home, when my foster father kept walking in on me when I was showering. I mentioned it to my social worker, asking that a lock be installed on the doors to the bathroom and my bedroom, and everything seemed fine after that.
