I’m Claire, 28, and I know the foster system too well.
By the time I was eight, I’d lived in more homes than I could remember. I learned early not to get attached. People call kids like me “resilient,” but really, we just learn how to pack fast and expect nothing.
Then I met Noah.
He was nine, quiet, sharp-eyed, sitting in a wheelchair that made adults awkward and kids unsure. They weren’t mean to him—just distant. They’d wave, then run off to games he couldn’t join. Staff talked around him instead of to him, like he was a task instead of a person.
One afternoon, I sat beside him with my book and joked, “If you’re guarding the window, you should share the view.”
He looked at me and said, “You’re new.”
“Returned,” I said. “I’m Claire.”
“Noah.”
From that moment on, we were inseparable.
Growing up together meant seeing every version of each other—angry, quiet, hopeful, disappointed. When couples toured the home, we never bothered hoping. We knew they wanted someone easier. Someone without a wheelchair. Someone without a file full of failed placements.
We made a joke of it.
“If you get adopted, I get your headphones.”
“If you do, I get your hoodie.”
We laughed, but we both knew no one was coming.
When we aged out at eighteen, they handed us papers, a bus pass, and wished us luck. No celebration. No safety net. Just the door closing behind us.
We left together with our belongings in plastic bags.
We enrolled in community college, found a tiny apartment above a laundromat, and took whatever jobs we could. He did remote IT work and tutoring. I worked coffee shifts and night stocking. The stairs were terrible, but the rent was cheap. It was the first place that felt like home.
Somewhere along the way, our friendship quietly became something more. No big confession. No dramatic moment. Just the realization that life felt calmer when we were together.
One night, exhausted, I said, “We’re basically already together, aren’t we?”
“Good,” he replied. “I thought it was just me.”
We finished school one semester at a time. When our diplomas arrived, we stared at them like proof we’d survived.
