When I agreed to carry a baby for another family, I thought I was helping them build the future they’d always wanted. I never imagined that one decision would lead to a battle that would return into our lives more than a decade later. The fluorescent lights of the grocery store had a way of bleaching the hours together until a double shift felt like one long, humming day. I was 32 then, still living in a studio apartment where the radiator clanged like it had opinions, still tucking tip money into an envelope marked « COLLEGE » in a shoebox under my bed.
I had aged out of foster care at 18 with a garbage bag of clothes and a bus pass. Fourteen years later, I was still trying to figure out what real life was supposed to look like.
I had aged out of foster care.My coworker, Marcy, noticed first. She always did.
« Emma, honey, you’ve been on your feet for 12 hours. You’re swaying. »
