Once upon a time, this author was five years old and, together with my eight-year-old brother, was placed into the foster care system when our mother was removed as our guardian. At five, you would expect that my memory of that time would be very limited . . . but that’s the thing with trauma—you never can predict what soaks in and what doesn’t. I have very vivid memories of being tossed from one group home to another, and an attempt at a proper foster. Not to mention a short time when my brother and I ran away and were loose on the streets of Seattle. As soon as my mother was “fit,” we were given back.

Fast-forward to a time, not so long ago, when, during a late shift in the emergency room, a seven-year-old boy who was running across the street and was hit by two cars back to back was rushed to our door.

I was new to trauma and requested that I be the one to help guide the parents when they showed up since our chaplain wasn’t available.

While the doctors and nurses desperately tried to save this boy’s life, I waited for the family to show.

And waited.

And waited.

As the doctors sadly called out the time of this young child’s passing, I was in a room with an emotionless group-home foster parent, delivering the horrible news. A foster parent who, when asked if they wanted to see the boy, said, “No. I don’t even know him.”

This boy was new to a group home. One parent was in jail, the other dead.

And this child was being chased by the older kids in the group home—they were trying to fight him—when he ran into traffic and was killed.

The thing that stuck with me for a very long time after that shift was that there was no one to mourn this boy’s death. No one to cry over his lifeless body.

But I did. I did for much longer than any nurse should. And I have thought of that boy so many times over the years.

This should never have happened.

We need to do better.

Damn, he was tired.

Dirty, tired, and in need of a beer in the worst way.

He turned down the crappy street he lived on and pressed the remote for his garage door two houses away from his place.

The single-story tract home that looked exactly like the one next door was a rental. It was a piece of crap, but it was home.

He pulled into his garage and caught sight of three people jumping out of a truck parked across the street from the house.

One man, two women. One of them pregnant.

He avoided eye contact as he cut the engine of his bike and pulled the helmet from his head.

“Max Smith?”

Hearing his name snapped his gaze toward the man who’d spoken as Max swung off his bike.

The two women jogged up the drive and stopped.

The pregnant one offered a soft smile.

The drop-dead gorgeous brunette met his eyes head-on.

Max turned to the man and dismissed them. They looked like the kind of people that walked the neighborhood peddling Jesus or vacuums. Neither of which he was interested in. “I don’t want whatever you’re selling.”

The pregnant woman laughed and looked between the others. “Miss Abigale all over again.”

Max hesitated. That soft smile was replaced with amusement.

The name Abigale rang a distant memory he’d long forgotten.

“We’re not here to sell you anything,” the man said as he took a step closer.

Max didn’t buy it. He also didn’t like that they had his name. They reminded him of social workers . . . only better dressed.

“Still not interested.” Max turned to walk away.

Then the words he never expected to hear in his life tumbled out of the man’s mouth. “We know who your father is.”

Max froze. The hair on his arms prickled, and his guard slammed up around him like an iron fence. What the hell kind of shit was this?

“I don’t have one of those.” His words were calculated and cold.

The soft smile returned to the pregnant woman’s face as she moved to the man’s side and placed a hand on his arm. “We know who your sperm donor is.”

Max clenched his jaw and drew on every skill he’d ever perfected to hide what he was feeling inside. He had no idea what kind of game these people were playing, but he didn’t want to be involved. If they did know who his father was, it was too fucking late to have anything to do with the man now. “Not interested in knowing him.”

“That’s a good thing,” the brunette told him with a snort. “He died in April.”