I was returned to foster care four times before a biker in a leather vest looked at me and said,
“You’re my daughter. Forever.”
And actually meant it.
Most families took one look at my wheelchair, my medical history, and the space where my legs should have been—and decided I wasn’t worth the cost. Too complicated. Too expensive. Too much work.
But he looked at me like I was already home.
My name is Destiny. I’m sixteen years old. I lost both my legs when I was three years old in a car accident that killed my mother. My father was driving drunk. He survived. She didn’t.
He went to prison.
I went into the foster care system.
For twelve years, I belonged nowhere.
The first family lasted six months. They said they “weren’t prepared.” What they meant was ramps cost money and hospital visits were inconvenient.
The second family kept me until they had a biological baby. Then I overheard the mother say, “We need to focus on our real child now.”
Real child.
Like I was a temporary one.
The third family wanted the monthly checks. I slept in a back room. Sometimes I skipped meals. When my stumps hurt, they told me I was exaggerating. A teacher noticed I was losing weight and called CPS.
The fourth family tried—but when the father got a job out of state, they decided taking a disabled teenager along was too hard.
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