She was only nine when her childhood was stolen. Her uncle, a man trusted by the family, shattered the world she thought was safe. There were no screams, no rescue. Just silence. The kind that wraps around a child and teaches her that pain must be hidden, that tears are wasted, and that no one is coming. She grew up in survival mode. Each day was a battle. With herself. With the memories. With the emptiness of not having a mother’s arms to run into or protection to rely on. L

I aged out of foster care with a trash bag of belongings and no forwarding address. Seven homes in twelve years. Some were fine — decent people doing their best with too many kids and not enough support. Some were not fine. I learned early which homes were safe and which ones required a different kind of survival. I learned to read a room before I learned to read a book. The hardest part of foster care isn't the big stuff, though the big stuff is real. The hardest part is the