She wraps her arms around me and holds on for what feels like forever. I bury my head in her shoulder and grasp onto my new prized possession. I choke on a sob trying to tell her thank you.

“Thank you for letting my family know you and love you,” she adds while she pats my back.

I nod, still unable to speak. The doorbell rings through the house and prompts me to pull away from her. “I’ll go get my things,” I say, turning to leave the kitchen.

“Don’t forget the box,” Sharon insists, picking it up and handing it to me.

I race to my room and grab my overnight bag, stuffing it with the few personal items I have. I shove my arms into my winter coat and take one final look around my simple room before walking back down the hallway to meet my caseworker.

“I’m ready,” I announce when I enter the living room. All of the other children are on the couch and Sharon is kneeling down quietly talking to them; no doubt filling them in on my abrupt departure. The entire situation is very out of the ordinary, so I can only assume that it must have been an emergency placement, I only wish I wasn’t the collateral damage.

When she finishes speaking to them, she stands and wraps her arm around me to walk me to the door. My caseworker, Robin, opens the door, but before I can step through the threshold, Sharon pulls me into another embrace.

“Our phone number and address is in the box,” she whispers into my ear. “Use it whenever you need to.”

“Thank you. For everything,” I whisper back.

She releases me and I take the first step out the door; a step away from a good home. I reach for my necklace, close my eyes, and muster the strength to continue toward the unknown.

“Forget-me-nots, Cam. Remember forget-me-nots,” Sharon says, encouraging me to move forward.

I squeeze the pendant in my hand and smile. I can do this.

Before my resolve fades, I briskly walk to the car and climb into the passenger seat. Sharon and the rest of the family stand on the porch and wave goodbye as we pull away from the curb, but I can’t bring myself to say goodbye. I smile and nod to Sharon, and the smile she returns lets me know she understands.

I remain silent in the car. I figure there isn’t much to say about the situation. Robin and I have been in this car more times than any kid should have to.

“I am sorry about this, Campbell,” Robin tells me. “There was an emergency situation and the Foresters were the only ones who could take on the case we had. I’m sorry it meant a change in residence for you. I’m hoping we can find a permanent placement for you soon.”

I turn my body to face her, squinting my eyes. “I’m calling your bluff on that one, Robin.”

She looks at me stunned. “What are you talking about?”

“Please don’t lie to me or sugarcoat it. I need to face the truth of my situation, so please, just tell it to me straight,” I plead. “What are my chances of being adopted?”

Robin hesitates, staring at the road ahead of us. Her reluctance tells me everything I’d already figured out myself. I just need to hear the words so I can move on, so I can give up on that wish.

“Please, Robin. I need to hear it.”

She finally nods. “Statistically, it’s not good, Campbell. I promise I’ll never give up looking, but realistically, you will age out of the system. The state will help you transition onto an adult path, but it will be without a family.”

I stare out the window at the changing landscape as I listen to my young adult fate being handed down to me. I close my eyes and rest my head against the cold, frosty window. I let the chill swarm my body and numb the sadness, which threatens to overwhelm me. Robin continues to talk, rambling on about my options, but her voice fades to the background. It isn’t until I feel the car stop and hear the transmission shift into park that I open my eyes to take in the sight of my new home.

“This is only temporary. We will get you settled somewhere else soon. Like I said, we were in a bit of an emergency situation and we needed to move things around quickly. I only foresee this being your home for a few weeks until we can get things settled again,” Robin defends.

I step out into the frigid night, and I quickly understand her defense. The trailer park we’ve landed in isn’t exactly a community of June Cleavers. The single-wide we are standing in front of isn’t decorated in anything resembling Christmas, unless you count the festive sign that says Beware of Dog: Our German Shepard ate Santa’s reindeer.

Robin notices me looking at the sign and laughs uncomfortably. “They were just approved. They passed all checks; this house will be fine,” she says half-heartedly.

I hoist my bag on my shoulder and reach for the necklace draped around my neck. “I’m okay. No matter what, Robin, I’m going to make it.”

Robin provides a sympathetic smile and knocks on the front door. A dog’s bark cuts through the silence of the night, startling both of us. It takes a few minutes for the door to open, but when it does, my resolve diminishes and Robin’s smile slightly fades.

I hold tight to my necklace, willing it to give me the strength to step through the door without tears. I’m going to need every bit of might to endure the next few weeks, or however long I’m left here.

“Forget-me-not,” I mumble as I take the first step across the threshold, hoping my new gift will one day guide me home. “Forget-me-not.”

Spring 2013

Carly

“Medically, there is nothing wrong with either of you. It’s something we call secondary infertility,” the doctor says, flipping through our medical charts.

I tune out everything from the sentence except the one word that sucker punches me in the gut…infertility. My throat burns and my vision blurs with the tears I desperately try to hold in. I can’t break down at the doctor’s office; I’m stronger than that. I lower my head to give myself a moment to pull myself together.

“So, are you saying we need to look at other alternatives,” Jack says, as he wraps his arm around the back of my chair.

“Sometimes it’s as simple as getting a correct gauge of when Carly is ovulating. So I’m going to prescribe Clomiphene, and I’d like you to get some ovulation kits to make sure we have your days correct. Hopefully, we can get this situated and you pregnant in the next few months. At that point we can reevaluate to see what our other options are if this approach is not successful.”

My brain accepts his advice, but my body doesn’t move to reflect it. I’m frozen like a statue, waiting for someone to break me, to push my fragile heart over the edge and smash it into tiny porcelain pieces.

Dr. Bradly tears off the prescription from his notepad and reaches across the desk to hand it to me, but I don’t respond. Noticing my struggle, Jack reaches across me and takes the paper.

“Thank you, Doctor. We will be in touch,” he murmurs as he folds the prescription and stands to put it in the pockets of his khakis. He then lightly grabs my arms and assists me from my seat. His touch breaks my trance and I move toward the door to get to our car as soon as possible.

I ignore the doctor’s goodbyes. I disregard the receptionist when she attempts to schedule our next appointment, and I close my eyes and turn away when I see the pregnant women in the waiting room. My mission is to get to the safety of our car.

Jack’s footsteps pound on the cement behind me as I rush through the parking lot. The car’s security system beeps as he unlocks the door and I slide into the passenger seat. The cool leather is a shock to my system, which stirs all of the emotion I’ve held in. Resting my elbows on my knees, I settle my face in my palms and release the tears I refused to shed in public.