The last foster home I lived in was, in many ways, the most difficult. It was the only one where I was the only child in the house. Before that, there had always been other foster kids around. Sometimes they were siblings, sometimes not. And while I didn’t enjoy the chaos or the constant uncertainty—never knowing how long I’d stay or when a social worker might show up—I’d gotten used to it.

One of the hardest parts was forming connections that disappeared without warning. I’d get close to the other kids, and then one morning I’d wake up and they’d be gone. They’d been moved to another home or sent back to their families. It happened all the time, and it never got easier. So when I arrived at that final home, I thought the quiet might be a relief. But it wasn’t. The stillness felt strange. I hadn’t realized how much I’d come to rely on the presence of other kids—the noise, the energy, the constant activity. Without it, I felt a different kind of loneliness.