For illustrative purposes only
“I’m Avery. I’m scared. Please don’t leave me and go. Please…” she whispered, over and over, as if stopping would make her disappear too.
I sat with her. Found a sippy cup in pediatrics and brought her apple juice. Read her a book about a bear who lost his way home — three times, because the happy ending mattered. When she touched my hospital badge and said, “You’re the good one here,” I had to excuse myself to the supply closet just to breathe.
The next morning, social services arrived. A caseworker asked Avery if she knew any family members. She shook her head. No phone numbers, no addresses. Just that her stuffed rabbit was named Mr. Hopps and her curtains were pink with butterflies. And she wanted me to stay.
Every time I tried to leave, panic flashed across her face. The caseworker pulled me aside: “She’s going into temporary foster placement. No family on record.”
I heard myself say, “Can I take her? Just for tonight. Until you figure things out.”
She looked at me like I was insane. “You’re single, you work night shifts, and you’re barely out of school yourself.”
