A Fragment of My Truth

This is the sad and hard truth about growing up without your biological parents.

I was sent to live as a foster kid at a very early age. You don’t really understand why—you’re just bouncing around, confused, longing for mom and dad. Eventually, my maternal mother took charge and brought me and my three sisters together. But soon after, we were separated again. I never felt much connection with my two older sisters, but my little sister and I had a bond. We protected each other—at school, at home, even when we didn’t behave the way our grandmother wanted.

She was mean. Harsh. Her words and actions made me feel like she regretted taking care of us. She was abusive in every way imaginable. I never understood why she took us in, only to take us out of the United States and into a life with even more pain.

I know families have ups and downs, but this was mostly down. At school, teachers were cruel because we didn’t speak much Spanish. They did everything they could to silence us.

And in the middle of all that, another storm brewed inside me. Question after question: Why didn’t my mother want us? Where was my dad? Did I do something wrong?

I couldn’t stop feeling guilty. And for a kid, that kind of guilt is impossible to understand. All I wanted was for my mom and dad to pick me up from school, take me to the park, buy me ice cream—just like in the movies. But my reality was far from that.

I appreciate what my grandmother did for us. I do. But I don’t appreciate how she made us feel like a burden. That’s when the dilemma started: Would it have been better if I’d been adopted by another family? Every day, I imagined growing up somewhere else. It was a mix of emotions.

And then, growing up gay in such a harsh environment made me a target. Some older men in the neighborhood did disturbing things. I don’t feel like a victim—I just wanted to understand why this was happening.

At 18, I moved to the U.S. to reconnect with my birth mother. That was the worst mistake I made. I learned why she couldn’t care for us, and it broke my heart. I didn’t even stay with her a full year. I escaped—started working and going to school so I could move out. But that wasn’t enough.

Thank God for one of my cousins, who invited me to live with her and her husband. From there, my life took many roads—some good, some not so good. But I pulled through. I became 100% independent.

Now, after so many years, I haven’t spoken to my grandmother or my biological mother. When I heard my father passed, I felt nothing. And that confused me. He was my dad, you know? But I couldn’t feel anything—not even sorrow.

I know my mother is somewhere in Boston. Still, I feel nothing. Not anger. Not sadness. Not concern. I feel bad for feeling nothing, but it’s the truth.

As an adult, I try to understand. But I can’t. I want to move on and forget everything—but that’s not my reality. And I accept that.

I’m married now. All my feelings go to my husband—the best man I’ve ever met. He knows how to love unconditionally, and for that, I’m grateful. He is my family now. Even after eight years together and five years of marriage, I still feel the same way about him. That’s comforting.

My point is: I wasn’t lucky in my early years. But now, I feel like I can age with the comfort of knowing real, unconditional love. I respect my walk in life and everything I’ve experienced. Lucky or not, I made it out of the storm. And now, I rest in the most beautiful place—with my husband.

We all have a story. This is just a fraction of mine.

Teodoro 2025