I am writing this for a little boy that will never get a chance to speak for himself. His life was taken from him. I can only imagine the fear he lived with, wondering why no one came to help him.
Why he didn’t have anyone who cared enough to hold him — hug him and comfort him, to dry his tears.
I have been trying to figure out what this 2-year-old did wrong — did he write on the walls — wet his pants — did he cry — did he not like the food? Or was he hungry? Most of this is just what a 2-year-old does.
I do know that he is now wrapped in God’s arms and that he will never shed another tear, never feel pain and never be hungry and now will always feel loved.
As I clean his blood off the walls, remove the crime scene tape … I cry and wonder if the officers who had to put the tape up and take their photos, I wonder if their hearts are broken, too?
I wonder why all the people that stayed there, visited there, never stood up and said something. These people should be ashamed of themselves.
I will never be able to get these images out of my mind and every time they float through it will make me shed a tear for an angel that was taken home far too soon.
I am a former foster child, let’s stop being quiet …