Leaving (MSF Journey)

Timmy was one of thousands throughout the United States going through this grueling cycle. He knew the drill; the phone rang, he was asked to pack up what little belongings he had, and not even 30-minutes later was put in the back of a car off to some new home. He had already moved four times since he turned seven last June. It was a Wednesday afternoon, not past 1:00pm when that damn phone rang. Julie Combs, his current foster mother answered the phone and looked directly at Timmy as he ate a PB&J sandwich at the counter. He knew it; he did not even have to be told. He set his half-eaten sandwich down and slowly moseyed into the room he had been living in for only two months.

Packing didn’t take long. He threw a couple striped t-shirts into a warn-down red backpack, grabbed his toothbrush and headed back towards the kitchen. By this time the other four children living at Miss. Julie’s were already outside playing kickball. Timmy would not be able to play today, or anymore with these kids. That’s to bad too because he really liked these kids. Not even ten minutes later the doorbell rang, Miss Julie kissed Timmy on the forehead and said, “Be good hunny, I hope to see you soon.” Timmy nodded and walked out the front door with a man in a brown suit. Those words that Miss Julie said, well they all said that to him as he left and he never saw or spoke to any of his foster parent’s again. He knew he would not see Miss. Julie again.

The car ride was long, the man in the brown suit kept trying to have small talk with Timmy but he just ignored him and looked out the window as the scenery changed from a friendly neighborhood to a busy city. As he watched all the cars zoom by which seemed like faster than the speed of light, he remember, he remembered why he was constantly taking these journeys to new places. Not even a year ago a bunch of policeman broke into his home. His mom began crying blurting out a bunch of words, not taking her eyes off Timmy. He knew she had done something, something wrong. They took her away from him; he has not seen her since. The boys in the first foster home he was in would always say, “Was your mom a crack head or something? Yeah, she probably was that’s why you’re here! Crack baby, crack baby!” Timmy hated that first house.

Before he knew it the city zooming by went back to suburban and they stopped at a little yellow house. Timmy held tight to his bag and stepped out of the car. You’d think he would be used to this by now, but he wasn’t. He hated this part. The unknown. Would he like his foster parents? Would the other children be mean like at that first house? How long would he be here? Would they like him? Would he be good enough? He wandered up the four short steps to the front porch, took a deep breath and watched as the man in the brown suit rang the doorbell. He held his breath in anticipation as the door opened wide.