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Growing Up in the System
My name is Claire. I’m 28, American, and I grew up in the system.
By the time I turned eight, I had already lived in more foster homes than I had celebrated birthdays.
People love to say that kids are resilient.
But the truth is, we just learn how to pack fast and stop asking questions.
By the time I was dropped off at the last orphanage, I had created one rule for myself:
Don’t get attached.
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Because in places like that, attachments don’t last.
The Boy by the Window
Then I met Noah.
He was nine—thin, quiet, and a little too serious for a kid his age. His dark hair stuck up in the back like he had just rolled out of bed, and the wheelchair he used made everyone around him act strange.
The other kids weren’t cruel, exactly.
They just didn’t know what to do with him.
They would shout “Hey!” from across the room, then run off to play tag where he couldn’t follow. Staff members talked about him in front of him like he wasn’t even there.
“Make sure someone helps Noah.”
Like he was part of the chore list.
One afternoon during free time, I dropped onto the floor next to his chair with a book and said,
“If you’re going to guard the window, you have to share the view.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You’re new,” he said.
“More like returned,” I replied. “Claire.”
He nodded once.
“Noah.”
And just like that, we were in each other’s lives.
Two Kids Nobody Chose
Growing up together meant we saw every version of each other.
The angry versions.
The quiet versions.
The versions that didn’t even bother hoping when “nice couples” came to tour the orphanage.
Because we already knew the truth.