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What Family Means to Me
by Emily Taveras
Names have been changed. My first childhood memory is being in a strange room with other kids crying. I entered the foster care system when I was 2 years old, and the memories I have of growing up in care are mostly fragmented, glued-together pieces.
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Trying to Create a Life in the Country
by Anonymous
When I came to the United States from the Democratic Republic of Congo three years ago, I bounced around temporary homes in Chicago, New York, and Philadelphia. Even though moving around a lot was difficult, I liked the pace of big cities.
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Writing My Way to Love
by S.G.
Names have been changed. Although my brother Zack was a year older than I was, sometimes I felt like the big sister. I was bolder than he was and I stuck up for him when he was about to be beaten by our adoptive parents.
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Life On My Own
by Bryant A.
Foster care was a pretty good experience for me. I came into care when I was 15, and was placed with a good foster mother, Blanca, right away. She helped me stay on track, and so did some of my foster care workers.
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I Finally Got an Apartment, but I Still Want to Be Adopted
by B.A.
Names have been changed. My parents abused and neglected me, and I went into care when I was 15. I lucked out getting Teresa for a foster mother. She was the first true mother figure I had. Six years later, I am still living with her and she is in the process of adopting me.
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Lucky to Have Me
by Anonymous
One day about two years ago, my older sister came home and said, “Pack a bag. We are leaving the country.’’ We had lived in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) our whole lives. I asked her, “Where are we going?”