Narrative Essay About The Foster Kid

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I couldn’t help but lie. No new kid wants to be known as the "foster kid". It is embarrassing. I get passed around from house to house, and I refer to them as houses because those places are not homes. They are crowded and filled with hatred. A home is supposed to be filled with love and warmth. Every child that has been in and out of those places has filled it with sadness, heart break, and what is left of their family memories.

When I was only six years old, my mom chose a bad lifestyle over her own daughter. It's a sad sentence to say right? Try having to hear from a complete stranger tell you that your mom doesn’t want you anymore. Even though my mom was as awful as she was before she let me go, everyone always reminded me of how stoked my mom was while she was pregnant, but years after I was born I watched her slowly wither away. Day after day she would come home at all hours of the night bringing home groups of people at a time. They loved to pick on me and throw me around, but they had no idea what they were doing, they weren't in their right mind to understand they were picking on
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They finally came after all these years to get me out of here. After all the abuse, the late nights, and tears shed I was finally getting a break. My life would finally start to look up, or so I thought.

Child Protective Services isn’t what I suspected. It’s not all rainbows and sunshine, and you don’t just get placed with the perfect family. My little brother and I got put in place after place, each one was just another bed to sleep in. None of them just felt like home. One house in particular had me at loss for words. It was perfect. It was a Victorian style home with a beautiful view of a Lake Norman. The couple said they were looking for a boy and a girl of no particular age, and we were the perfect. I mean honestly from the look in their eyes you could feel the
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