I’m Claire, 28, and I know the foster system too well.

By the time I was eight, I’d lived in more homes than I could remember. I learned early not to get attached. People call kids like me “resilient,” but really, we just learn how to pack fast and expect nothing.

Then I met Noah.

He was nine, quiet, sharp-eyed, sitting in a wheelchair that made adults awkward and kids unsure. They weren’t mean to him—just distant. They’d wave, then run off to games he couldn’t join. Staff talked around him instead of to him, like he was a task instead of a person.

One afternoon, I sat beside him with my book and joked, “If you’re guarding the window, you should share the view.”

He looked at me and said, “You’re new.”