You haven’t yet been matched to us. We haven’t yet learned your story or locked eyes with you for the first time. Yet, you exist.
I picture the moment all the time. I will open the door and look down; my foster child will be standing in front of me. I will kneel down to make eye contact, and I’ll smile to reassure.
But each time in the years to come when I feel a need to ground my feet against the rush of life, the words will come back to me. It’s just wind. It will pass. No rain.
I thought I had more time. I thought I had at least months or—I’d hoped—years before this would start. Before Ryan’s babyish innocence would be slowly and matter-of-factly chipped away, one peer-inflicted comment at a time.