No Strings

“You’re welcome. It’s the least I could do after everything you’ve done for Brody and me.”

“What have I done?” I ask, confused.

Ben laughs under his breath. “Of course you don’t realize it…” He shakes his head. “These past few days are the happiest I’ve seen my son in a while. And the most pleasant. I even found his cigarettes in the garbage this morning. His cursing has decreased, and it’s almost as if he doesn’t hate the entire world.”

“And you think I did that?”

“Yeah, I do,” he says, his tone serious. “I don’t know what’s going on with him and his mom, but he’s clearly taken to you during a time when he can use a friend, and I appreciate that.”

“You don’t have to thank me. He’s a great kid. Just a little lost. I saw it many times over the years in foster care.”

A gentleman steps inside and sets a carafe of hot chocolate on the table, along with a bowl of marshmallows and some peppermint sticks. Then he brings in a pitcher of apple cider and a plate of chicken tenders with fries and several dipping sauces.

“Thank you,” Ben says, pulling out a bill to tip him. Once the gentleman exits, he returns his attention to me. “You grew up in foster care?”

“Yeah.” I grab a mug and fill it with hot chocolate, then top it with some marshmallows and drop a peppermint stick inside. “Since my parents couldn’t get their act together, choosing drugs over me, I was in and out, starting at seven years old.”

“You didn’t have any other family?”

“My grandpa on my mom’s side tried to help, but he passed away when I was little, and my dad’s parents refused to acknowledge us. I have one aunt, but she hated my mom so much, she wouldn’t help, so that left me stuck in the system until I aged out at eighteen.”

“I thought most get adopted…”

“Some do, but many don’t. Kids like me, whose parents refuse to give up custody even though they shouldn’t have had kids, nor do they want them, get stuck in foster care. It’s like having one foot in and one out. And by the time their rights were revoked, I was no longer a cute kid people wanted to adopt.”

Ben nods slowly as if contemplating what he wants to say. I hand him a steaming mug of hot chocolate, and he thanks me. After taking a sip, his eyes lock with mine. “I never wanted to be a dad. My mom always wanted to have kids. She and my dad were high school sweethearts and dated all through high school and college. They were together for almost twelve years before they decided to start a family. They had me and, shortly after, my sister. But after Mom had my sister, something in her changed. She would fight with my dad every day and yell at Amalia and me over everything. As the years went on, it got worse, but my dad refused to get her help. He was in love with her and kept saying things would get better.”

I can see it in his face as he looks past me, stuck in his own head, that things didn’t get better.

“When I was twelve, she committed suicide.” His eyes meet mine. “My sister is the one who found her bleeding out on the floor in her bedroom, knowing we were home. My dad lost his shit and his grip on reality. He lost his job, our house. At one point, we were sleeping in the car. He finally somewhat got it together, got another job, and rented a shoebox-sized apartment. Watching my mom and dad…” He sighs. “I never wanted to have kids. Before she had us, she was perfect. Their relationship, their marriage, their life was perfect.”

“You can’t possibly blame yourself.” It sounds like she might’ve had postpartum depression or some kind of chemical imbalance. I’m not a doctor, but in foster care, you see so many kids coming and going, all sharing their stories, that you learn about the various diseases that affect people, especially parents.

“I heard my dad say dozens of times she wasn’t like that before she had kids.” His elbows land on his knees, and he rubs his palms up and down his scruffy face. “I’ve never told anyone this before.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I need you to understand why my relationship with my son is so strained. Why I’m such a shitty dad.”

“You’re not a shitty dad.”

“You compared his issues to those of kids in foster care.” He chuckles self-deprecatingly. “I don’t think I’ll be winning any parent of the year awards.”

“I didn’t mean… I just meant I’ve seen kids lost like him.” I try to backtrack, feeling bad for making it sound like Brody comes from the same type of home the other foster kids and I came from. “I wasn’t implying that—”