Raised in foster homes all his life, Steve spent years searching for the mother he never knew. When he finally found her, her first words weren’t, “I missed you.” Instead, she said, “I think you’re here for what’s in the basement,” leading him into a chilling confrontation with the past.
For twenty years, I’d wondered what it would feel like to look my mother in the eyes and ask, Why did you leave me? Every foster home, every new beginning, was a stark reminder of the void she left behind. I held onto the fragile belief that she had no choice—that deep down, she had loved me, even if she couldn’t keep me.
Her lullabies haunted me, etched in my memory like a melody meant to soothe but instead slicing through every missed moment: birthdays, Christmas mornings, scraped knees, and tearful nights. I clung to the sound of her voice in my mind, replaying it like a broken record, desperate for proof that I wasn’t just another unwanted child shuffled through the system.
When I turned 18, I began searching. I had no photographs, no full name—just “Marla” and the sound of her voice. I scoured foster care records, hired private investigators, and poured money into databases, but every lead ended in smoke, leaving me with nothing but unanswered questions and a determination that refused to die.
