When my classmates were dreaming of first kisses at 14, I was warming bottles at 3 a.m. and soothing colicky babies. I was a teenager in my neon green jumpsuit, thrust from foster child to foster mother in the span of a few years.
I had to step up and help out. I took care of a newborn boy. I was at an age when I still needed a mother, but I had to worry about coaxing picky eaters and rocking babies instead of homework.
The day he left, I dressed him in a tiny gray suit I'd carefully picked out, slightly too big - a silent wish for him to grow into it, to grow into a life full of love and opportunity.
I hesitated before answering, 'Yes, he is.' It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either.
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