I grew up in foster care while my sister stayed with our father – years later, she took me to his house and said, "If you go in there…you'll be in danger." - Page 10 of 12

My stomach sank to the floor.
“So I never had one,” I said.
Richard’s eyes filled with tears. “No.”
From the kitchen, my grandmother’s voice rose, high-pitched and self-satisfied.
“He was better that way,” she shouted. “It’s pointless.”
Barbara jumped to her feet. “Shut up!”
Richard whispered, “I’m sorry, Alan.”
I couldn’t reply. I got up and left before my body did anything embarrassing, like collapse.
In the car, Barbara kept calling my name.
I looked out the window. “You let her.”
Barbara sobbed. “I know.”
After a long minute, I said, “Take me home.”
Home, meaning Lisa and Mark’s.
Home, meaning Lisa and Mark’s.
When I told my parents everything, Lisa went pale. Mark’s jaw tightened so much it looked painful.
Lisa pulled out my old file. The one the system had given them.
“Unstable home,” she read, her voice trembling. “No willing parents. Father disabled, capacity questionable. Contact not advised.”
Mark’s hands shook. “If we had known he wanted contact,” he said, “we would have fought for an open adoption.”
Lisa’s eyes filled with tears. “We trusted the system. I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t owe anyone a relationship.”