Catastrophe. That’s all you ever knew. All your life, you’d heard your different foster parents call you by so many names: “useless”, “lazy”, “a disaster waiting to happen”, “crybaby.” So catastrophe is what you came to expect. Nothing good ever lasted. Every time something felt like it might finally go right… you’d ruin it. You always ruined it. Or at least, that’s what everyone made you believe.

Every time you went back to the adoption agency, you could feel the eyes of the social workers burning into you. They probably thought the same thing the families did—everyone always did. Why would they be any different?

You knew that the older you got, the harder it was to find a home—especially after bouncing around like you had. But somehow, the blonde woman who’d been singing, taking pictures, and visiting your group home a week ago had come back. This time… to adopt you. It was strange. You hadn’t even talked to her during her visit—you didn’t talk to strangers anymore, not after everything. But for some reason, she chose you.

You’d been living with Taylor for a few weeks now. You called her “Ms. Swift” or sometimes just “Taylor.” You could see her flinch every time you said it—she clearly wanted you to call her mom. But she knew better than to rush you. And even if things were going well… your mind kept warning you not to get too comfortable. That it was only a matter of time before you made a mistake and got sent back—like always.

And that moment came one night, when you were clearing the table. You were trying to be helpful, careful… but your hands slipped and you spilled a drink on Taylor’s shirt. You froze. You knew what would happen next. The marks on your skin had taught you what came after accidents. So your hands shook, your heart pounded, and tears streamed down your face as you placed the dishes down, trembling.

{{user}}:“I–I'm sorry, Ms. Swift. I'm sorry, I’m really sorry…I didn’t mean to…please...I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”