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Mar 9, eBooks Download A Child Called It (PDF, ePub, Mobi) by Dave Pelzer Online for Free. This is Dave Pelzer's long-awaited sequel to A Child Called "It". In The Lost Boy, he answers questions and reveals new adventures through the compelling story of his life as an adolescent. Now considered an F-Child (Foster Child), Dave is moved in and out of five different homes. Editorial Reviews. hackbus.info Review. The third tale in David Pelzer's autobiographical Dave Pelzer. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Kindle Store · Kindle eBooks · Health, Fitness & Dieting.

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This is Dave Pelzer's long-awaited sequel to "A Child Called "It". The Lost Boy" is Pelzer's story-- a moving sequel and inspirational read for all. This book is not. Dave PelzerA Man Named DaveDave Pelzer's incredible and inspiring life story has already captured the interest of mo. Просмотр темы1. DOWNLOAD FREE BOOKS My Story: A Child Called It, The Lost Boy, A Man Named Dave By Dave Pelzer KINDLE BOOKS EBOOKS EPUB.

Dave Pelzer. Dave Pelzer A Man Named Dave Dave Pelzer's incredible and inspiring life story has already captured the interest of more than one million readers. A Man Named Dave is the long-awaited conclusion to his trilogy in which he describes how he triumphed over years of physical and emotional abuse from his parents to become a selfaccepting and confident adult. Readers of Pelzer's previous two bestsellers await this book--the first of Pelzer's books to be available in hardcover--to learn how he finally confronts his pathologically abusive mother and his neglectful, alcoholic father in an effort to turn a childhood marked by rejection and emotional abuse into an adulthood filled with love and acceptance. This book is not for sale!!!

Beautiful Child. Marie beech. Daddy's Little Secret. Tina Davis. Girl A. Anonymous Girl A. I Love You Baby Girl A heartbreaking true story of child abuse and neglect. Melody J. Never Call Me Mummy Again. Peter Kilby. Two More Sleeps.

Rosie Lewis. How Could He Do It? Emma Charles. Phil Clarke. Childhood Lost. Claire Atherton. Jayne Sterne. Daddy's Prisoner. Megan Lloyd Davies. Crying for Help: Someone to Love Us: The shocking true story of two brothers fostered into brutality and neglect. I Remember, Daddy: The harrowing true story of a daughter haunted by memories too terrible to forget. Katie Matthews. The Child Bride. Anya Peters. The Night the Angels Came. Stacey Lannert.

Mother From Hell. Patrick Doyle. Mummy Knew: A terrifying step-father. A mother who refused to listen. A little girl desperate to escape. Lisa James. The Girl Without a Voice: The true story of a terrified child whose silence spoke volumes. Nabila Sharma. A Daughter's Story. Sue's Story. Sue Owen. Skin Deep: No More Silence: But one day little David would find the strength to speak out. David Whelan.

A Man Named Dave

A heartbreaking true story of a brave little girl's escape from violence. Maria Landon. The Innocent and the Merciless. Auna Raunea. Bought and Sold. Megan Stephens. What Matters Most. Dianne Maguire. Sarah Jones. Nobody Heard Me Cry. John Devane. Stolen Girl. Katie Taylor. The Boy No One Loved: Eileen Munro. No, Daddy, Don't.

Irene Pence. The story of my adopted daughter Lucy. Mummy Told Me Not to Tell: The true story of a troubled boy with a dark secret. Nobody's Child. Michael Seed. The Bruises from my Mother's Love. Danette King. The Cupboard Under the Stairs. Paul Mason. Little Molly. Rosemarie Smith. Running from the Devil. Sara Davies. Wake Up, Mummy.

Anna Lowe. Rescuing Tara. Robin Bowles. Battered, Broken, Healed. A Man Named Dave. The Privilege of Youth. A chill fills my body. I so badly want to remain asleep, forever. The more I wake from my slumber, the more I curse God for not taking me in my sleep. He never answers my prayers. I so badly wish I were dead. I break down and cry. A waterfall of tears runs down my face. I used to be so strong. I wipe my runny nose and my tears away. I must never, ever expose a sign of weakness. I take a deep breath and gaze upward.

I lock my hands together before retreating inside my shell that will protect me for another day. I sigh. If you are God, what is your reason? I just… I so badly want to know, Why? Why am I still alive? Mother staggers out of her bedroom. Move it! I only have a few seconds before … I was supposed to be up an hour ago to begin my chores. I stand up and fumble through the darkness, trying to find the light switch to the garage.

I trip over one of the legs to the army cot. A moment later the side of my face smashes against the cold cement. Bright silver dots fill my view. I smack the palms of my hands on the floor. I so badly want to pass out. I never want to regain consciousness ever again. After flicking on the light switch, I snatch the broom before racing up the staircase.

I can win. I smile as I tell myself, Come on, man, go! I seem so out of breath. My mind races at supersonic speed, but my body responds in slow motion.

My feet feel like blocks of cement. The tips of my fingers are so cold. I used to be lightning fast. Without thinking I reach my left hand out to the wooden rail that I use to pull myself up the stairs. I can hear the gurgling sound of the toilet flushing from above.

I quicken my pace. I extend my arm toward the rail. I smile inside. A split second later my heart skips a beat as my hand misses the rail and grabs air. My body begins to wobble. The rail! Grab the stupid rail! As hard as I fight to concentrate, my fingers refuse to obey. My world turns black.

A blinding glare pierces my eyes. My head seems as if it is stuck in a fog. I can make out a figure standing above me in front of a bright white light. For a moment I thought I was staring at an angel sent to take me to heaven. Mother uses a soft, evil tone so not to wake up her precious babies. My body shudders as I place the broom against the base of the stairs.

I spin around, then look back up at Mother. Bring it with you. I warn myself to stay focused. I know she plans on using the broom as a weapon, either against my chest or face. I cringe as I imagine her taking a bite from my ear. I dare not look up or back away. My heels hang over the edge of the stair. The tone of her voice changes.

My mind spins. Did Mother just give me permission to speak? I have no idea what she expects of me. I focus my energy on the front of my shoes. The more I stare, the more my body begins to sway. Without warning Mother thrusts a finger under my chin, lifting my face to hers. Her rancid breath makes my stomach coil.

I fight not to pass out from her stench. Her once gleaming hair is now oily and matted against the sides of her face. Tell me, exactly: How stupid am I? I snap my head back down as I quickly bury the pain inside. I cannot figure out why I am so slow. Dammit, David, stay focused! You think you can get away with whatever you damn well please!

You are. You choose your actions. You know who — what — you are and what your purpose is in this household. It knows the rules. It simply refuses to obey. Her chest begins to wheeze. You pathetic piece of filth!

You little bastard! You know your function. Do you understand? Am I making myself clear, or perhaps It needs another lesson? I break down inside. My body begins to shake. Go ahead, I say to myself. Do it! Just kill me! Come on! Suddenly, my vision sharpens. My insides stop shaking. Rage slowly begins to fill me. I no longer feel ice cold.

The fingers to my right hand tighten around the wooden broom handle. Mother becomes paralyzed. I focus every fiber of my being on piercing through her silverframed glasses and reddened eyes. I will myself to somehow transfer every moment I had to carry for the last eight years of pain and loneliness into Mother. She knows. Mother tries to break away from my stare.

She moves her head slightly to the left. Mother looks down and away. I tilt my head up and sharpen my stare. I smile. From the bottom of my soul I feel so warm.

From the back of my mind I hear a chuckle. Her putrid breath breaks my concentration. The more Mother smiles, the more my body becomes tense. She tilts her head toward the light. Now, I tell myself, now I can see it coming. Go ahead, give it to me! Come on, do it! Show me what you got! I see the blur a split second before I feel her hand collide against my face. A moment later, warm blood seeps from my nose. I let it drip on the blackmatted stairs.

I refuse to give Mother the pleasure of watching me cry or reacting in any way whatsoever. I defy her by remaining numb inside and out.

You never have and you never will. I can kill you anytime I please. I bow my head, resuming the position of address. Dark red blood spatters the toes of my shoes.

For a fleeting moment I felt so alive. The more that Mother babbles, the more I nod my head, acknowledging Mother is indeed almighty and Godlike for allowing me to live another day in her household. How I wish she would pass out and drop dead. In my mind I fantasize Mother sprawled on the hallway floor. I would give anything to be there as she quivered helplessly on her back before taking her last breath. Suddenly my throat feels as if it is on fire as Mother tightens her grip around my neck.

My eyes want to pop out of my head. As much as I try, I cannot pry her hands off. The more I struggle, the more Mother tightens her death grip. I try to scream, but only a gurgling sound leaks out. My head slumps forward. I shout to myself. Show me, show me what you got! Kill me, you bitch! Her nostrils flare from her rapid breathing. I want Mother to kill me. I begin to feel myself drift away.

My hearing seems as if I am in the middle of a long tunnel. My arms fall to my side. For the first time in years, my body relaxes.

Wake up, you miserable piece of trash! I know exactly what you want! Does the little insect have a sore throat? After another quick squeeze, Mother lets go of her hold. Without permission, I rub my neck, gasping for air. A second later I nearly lose my balance as Mother snatches the broom from beside me. I automatically tighten my upper body. Do I make myself perfectly clear?

Not bad at all! Perhaps this will teach you … teach It…. I brace my arms for the impact. My upper body is rock solid, but I have no way of telling which direction the sound is coming from. A jolting thud strikes the side of my neck. Without thinking I reach out to Mother. Her eyes shine with pleasure. She slaps my hands away. As my feet slip, my head jerks backward. I can feel my throat collapse the same way it did when Mother had me swallow teaspoons full of ammonia.

I fight to swallow a breath of air, but my brain is too slow to respond. A moment later I can feel myself floating, my arms flung above my face. Suddenly, a rush of air fills my chest as the back of my head smashes against the staircase. At the bottom of the staircase, my chest heaves; I want to find a bucket and throw up.

At the door above me, Mother bends over with laughter. My only form of protection is to close my eyes. I can hear the broom topple down the stairs before missing me completely. Alone in the garage I le t go and cry like a baby. I have no dignity, no selfworth. Rage slowly builds inside my soul. I clench my hands together and begin taking my frustration out on the floor. Why, why, why? What in the hell did I ever do to you to make you hate me so much?

The whitishyellow garage light begins to fade as I lose consciousness. Without thinking of Mother catching me, I lie on my side, pull my shirt over my face, bury my hands between my legs, and close my eyes. Wake up, I tell you! I have no idea how I got here. My mind struggles to recall why I keep losing track of time.

She leans over and slaps my face. Before I can stop myself, I commit another offense by looking right at her and shaking my head. I lean forward to catch what she said. Listen up. Mother snaps her fingers, indicating a breakthrough for her latest cover story. I cannot believe how easily Mother can come up with her offthewall lies every single day of school. I was bad. I was wrestling and … I got out of control. Mother tilts her head to one side as she inspects her latest damage.

She holds her gaze for a few moments before losing her balance, stumbling toward me. In a jerking motion I flinch backward.

Bending her head down, she stares into space. I can feel her eyes scan my body. I never meant to … to live like this. No one does. I tried, God knows I did — to be the good wife, the perfect mother. I did everything: I really did try. Hell, besides school, no one knows you.

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Without stealing a glance, I can hear Mother sniffle as she struggles not to let down her guard. She always has. When I was younger, Mother would drag me out of bed in the middle of the night, have me stand in front of her as she poured herself glass after glass and raved on for hours.

What in the hell does she want? I hate not knowing what Mother expects of me. At parties everyone loved you! Everyone wanted to take you home.

Always polite, always with manners. She can no longer control the tears that stream down her cheeks. How come? I know, deep inside Mother, that something is different. My God! It took you forever to tie your shoes. But you never gave up. As Stan threw a temper tantrum on the beach below us, I thought Mother would realize her mistake. After a few minutes of fishing, I deliberately kept the pink salmon egg bait just above the water. I never wanted my adventure with my mommy to end. Now, as I shake my head clear of the memory, my voice becomes choked up.

My God. I remember everything. I drew you and me sitting on that old tree with a happyface sun shining above us. Remember, I gave it to you that day after school? She clutches her coffee mug, then puts a finger to her lips. The excitement from her face drains away. She clamps her eyes shut and covers her ears. Not you or anybody else.

No one tells me what to do! You got that, mister? Her upper body begins to shake. I stand in front of Mother like a helpless fool. After a few seconds the redness from her face disappears.

She lets out a deep sigh. I back away from the kitchen table and resume the position of address. Forget the dishes; you can finish them after school. And listen up: You got me, mister? You took my time, then I take your lousy sandwich. Now get the hell out of here! Now run! I can hear her evil laugh as I slam the front door shut before sprinting off to school. With every breath I take in, the muscles around my throat tighten.

An enormous pressure from behind my eyes begins to build. I slap my knees as if that will somehow make air rush into my lungs. The school nurse spins around from behind her desk.

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My mind fumbles to yell, but I cannot form the words. But I try again. The nurse leaps up with lightning speed, grabs a brown bag, turns it upside down spilling its contents onto the floor, and kneels down in front of me. Through my tears I can see the terror in her eyes. The nurse pulls on my hand, but I slap her away as I continue to pound my knees.

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The more I try to draw air into my lungs, the more the invisible bands tighten around my chest. I … have to see! Close your eyes and concentrate on the sound of my voice. Now slow down. Take tiny puffs of air. Breathe through your nose.

With her I feel safe. Reach out, take my hand. As the nurse places the bag over my face, I can instantly feel warm air circulate. It feels good, but after a few breaths my exhaled air becomes too hot. My legs begin to lock up.

Much better. Now, lean your head back and relax. The pressure is so intense that I fight to keep myself from throwing up. I rip the bag from my face before my legs buckle, and I fall to the floor gasping for more air. Within seconds the bands around my chest begin to ease. After a few minutes, the fire from inside my neck begins to cool. Without a second thought the nurse reaches into the glass and picks one out.

The moment I do, the searing pain returns. I close my eyes. All they do is make everyone at school upset and somehow Mother always finds out. Whenever the principal has called Mother, the staff at school would see the results the next day. I slowly open my eyes when I feel the nurse lift my head with her fingers. Her face turns chalky white. Open up. Can you do that for me? Again, I try to avoid her stare.

I bury my trembling fingers in my lap. She shakes her head before standing up and grabbing her clipboard. Every school day, for over a year, the nurse has inspected my body from head to toe before documenting her examinations. Now she mutters to herself as she scribbles her latest findings. Kneeling back down, she delicately massages the palms of my hands. I bite my lip in anticipation. The nurse stares into my eyes as if not knowing what to say.

Your, ah, your larynx … your epiglottis is swollen and your trachea is inflamed. The opening to your throat was cutting off your flow of oxygen. Do you realize what might have happened to you?

Let it go! Not this time! This is the last straw. This has to be reported to the principal. Something has got to be done. In an effort to relieve the pain I stare up at the ceiling. I wring my hands and concentrate on inhaling tiny puffs of air through my nose. From the corner of my eye I can see the nurse still standing by the door.

I slowly turn my head toward her. Tears run down my cheeks. What are you waiting for? I bite down on my lip until it bleeds. My arms begin to shake. Every day is a repeat of the day before.

Nothing changes, and nothing ever will! I can no longer control my flood of emotions. I bury my face in my hands. You have to understand: No one wins! Whatever energy I had drains away. I fight to slow down my breathing. To be a real kid — with clothes and stuff. I always wanted to play on the jungle gym after school. I have to run to The House fast or I get into trouble.

I mean, to fix things between Mother and me, to make things better. I wanted to know why, how, things became so bad. They never came. Why me, why us? I just wanted to know. I just want to go to sleep! The games, the secrets, the lies, hoping one day Mother will wake up and everything will be better again! She shakes her head. Look at you. Not today, please? Please, let it go! She covers me with a thick wool blanket. I take her hands and cup them around mine.

I am no longer afraid. I am ready to die. My stomach seized with fear. My fingers seemed fused together as they clawed the armrest. I wanted to shut my eyes, but the combination of exhilaration, fascination, and terror inside me kept them glued to the small Plexiglas window. I studied every feature of the Bay Area — my home for the last eighteen years.

To help contain my fear, I forced my eyes shut. I could feel myself drifting off. Because of the excitement of finally enlisting in the U. Air Force, saying goodbye to my foster parents, and struggling with my past, I had not slept in days. The more my tension disappeared, the more I began to think of how far I had come.

Somehow, I had known Mother was close to killing me, and yet I did not care. I had given up all hope. Yet on March 5, , the day after Mother had thrown me down the garage stairs, my teachers called the police, who immediately placed me into protective custody. I was free. As elated as I was, I sensed that my freedom was a hollow victory. I felt as if I was not good enough for her.

When my angel of mercy — my social worker, Ms Gold — informed me that I was never to have any contact with Mother or her children ever again, I was crushed. Even though I was still terrified of Mother, who wanted nothing to do with me, I still struggled to prove that I was worthy of her love and worthy enough to be a member of her family.

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As a foster child, I soon learned that I knew absolutely nothing about living in the real world. But after my rescue I felt like a toddler — learning and growing by leaps and bounds. The simplest things taught to preschool children became major obstacles for me.

Because I had spent years in the garage with my head bent backward in a POW position, I developed very bad posture. As a foster child, I had to learn to focus and walk upright. Whenever I became nervous, I stuttered or slurred every word. It would take me forever to complete one simple sentence.

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My foster mother, Mrs Turnbough, spent hours with me every day after school, teaching me phonics and helping me to imagine my words flowing from my mouth, like water cascading over a fall.

Within a few months, I was driving my foster parents up the wall with all I had to say. They had all they could do to shut me up. I wanted to show off my new form of communication to everyone, every minute. Because I was so skinny and awkward, I became easy prey for others, and my only form of defense was my mouth.

Whenever I felt backed in a corner, words of intense anger and hatred seemed to erupt before I could analyze what I was saying or why. The only way I felt I could make friends was stealing for acceptance or doing whatever else I could to gain recognition. I knew that what I was doing was completely wrong, but after years of being an outcast and totally isolated, the need to fit in was too powerful to resist. My foster parents struggled to keep me on the straight and narrow, and teach me the seriousness of my decisions.

On the lighter side, they were dismayed at my naivete and ignorance. The first few times I took a bath, I filled the tub to the rim before stepping into it, causing water to spill over the sides.

As much as my foster parents laughed at my water frolics, my foster sisters were not amused and hid their bottles of Vidal Sassoon in their bedrooms. Up until then I had never heard of the word shampoo.

The Lost Boy

I thought that in order to survive, I had to work. The closer I came to reaching adulthood, the more I became terrified of being broke and homeless. Deep down I feared I would no t be strong enough to make it on my own. So, as a young teenager, I abandoned my Lego and Erector sets and my Hot Wheels toy cars and focused on earning a living. By the age of fifteen I was shining shoes.

I lied about my age to get work as a busboy. I did whatever I could to put in at least forty hours a week. As a freshman in high school, I slaved six days a week to put in over sixty hours. On one level, thinking that I was ahead of the game, I was proud, almost to the point of being cocky. But on the inside I felt hollow and lonely.

Whenever I felt a little depressed, I would bury myself even more in my work. The harder I applied myself, the more the cravings of wanting to be a normal teenager disappeared. And more important, the inner voice bubbling inside me, fighting for the answers to my past, remained quiet. For me, work meant peace. In the summer of , at age eighteen, in order to further my career as toprated car salesman, I decided to drop out of high school. But months later, after a statewide recession, I found myself as a legal adult, with no diploma, no job, and my life savings quickly draining away.

My worst nightmare had come true. All of my wellthoughtout plans of getting ahead and sacrificing while others played vanished into thin air. Because of my lack of education, the only jobs available were at fastfood restaurants. I knew I could not make it by working those jobs for the rest of my life.

I had failed. And for that I hated myself to the core. My idle time awakened my inner voice. I began to think that maybe Mother had been right all along.

Maybe I was a loser, and I had been treated as such because I deserved it. I became so paranoid about my future that I could no longer sleep. I spent my free evenings trying to form any strategy I could to survive.

It was during one of those endless nights that I remembered the only piece of advice my father ever gave me. At the end of my last visit, he proudly showed me one of the only possessions he had left: Get as far away from here as you can. Get out.

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After spending a lifetime saving others from burning buildings, Father had been helpless to save himself. That day as the bus pulled away, I cried from the depths of my soul. As much as I felt sorry for him, though, I knew I did not want to — I could not — end up like him. I decided that joining the service was my only chance. I even fantasized about serving in the air force as a fireman, then one day returning to the Bay Area and showing Father my badge.

Trying to enlist proved to be an ordeal. After struggling to obtain my GED, I had to fill out mounds of paperwork for every time I had been bounced from one foster home to another, then explain on separate forms why I was placed in another home. Whenever the air force recruiter pressed me about my past, I became so terrified that I stuttered like an idiot. After weeks of evading these questions, I caved in and gave the sergeant a brief explanation about why Mother and I did not get along.

I waited for his reaction. I held my breath knowing that if the recruiter thought I was a troublemaker, he could refuse my application. Every morning, for weeks, I stood outside the door, waiting for the office to open, before I hurried in to fill out more paperwork, and studied films and whatever booklets the recruiter had available.

I became possessed to enlist. The air force was my ticket to a new life. After the paperwork was filled out, doublechecked, then reverified, I had to get a physical examination. During the battery of tests I was poked and prodded on every inch of my railthin body. At the end, as I sat nearly naked, the doctor kept circling around me as he questioned the ancient bumps on my scalp, the scars on my body, the marks on my right arm where Mother had burned me on the gas stove.

The doctor let out a sigh and raised his eyebrows. Immediately my heart seized. I just knew I had said the wrong thing. Fearing my statement would disqualify me, I quickly added that it was a stage I had gone through when I was a kid. Nope, not anymore.

Not me. I felt a surge of relief as I saw him mark the block that claimed I was medically qualified to enlist. I was on top of the world, right up until the moment I leaned too far and crashed against the table. The doctor ordered me to stop trying to help and get out of his office as fast as humanly possible. As I hurried out the door, the doctor flashed a smile. I can join? My mind immediately flashed back to all the close calls I had had with the police for speeding tickets when I was a teenager.

My heart skipped a beat. I knew that if the air force found out about my past, I was a goner. The sergeant startled me when he tapped on my shoulder. So … when do you want to enlist? Now you have the chance to make something of yourself. Now is your time to build a life. I simply could not believe that after struggling over six months, I had actually made it. I allowed myself the reward of smiling. So, what will it be?

For months I had lied to my foster parents, telling them that I was taking specialized tests and interviewing for a job, which in a way I felt I was. The Turnboughs had no idea what I was really up to. I felt a sudden urge to run off and enlist and then simply phone them from boot camp. Besides my foster parents and a handful of close friends, I had no one in my life. No girlfriends, no work buddies, no friends who picked me up to go cruising or see movies, no relatives to speak of — no one.

I felt that if I fell off the face of the earth, less than half a dozen people would even notice. But deep in my heart I knew that I owed my real family - my foster parents and whatever friends I had — more than a longdistance phone call.

Above all, it was a matter of honor. I let out a deep sigh before answering the sergeant. You sure about this? Without blinking an eye, I nodded my head. I stared at the blocks with the bright red Xs. This is it! I told myself. I snatched the government pen and scribbled my name so hard that I nearly tore through the sheets of papers. As the sergeant took the paperwork and typed in more commands to his computer, I killed time by looking at the framed glossy photographs of the hightech air force fighter jets.

My mouth began to water at the sleek, crisp lines of the airplanes against the endless blue sky. F afterburning engines…. All these facts I had learned from the recruitment brochures and stream of books I had digested over the last few months.

He simply nodded for me to continue. I closed my eyes to recall as much as I could. And … I think … it was two, maybe three years ago that a modified F Streak Eagle beat the timetoclimb altitude record held by a Russian MeG. By the smile in his eyes I realized he was not only impressed, but interested in planes as well.

What base did they launch the Streak Eagle from? Why Grand Forks? The colder air allows the plane to reach speeds and altitudes quicker while at the same time consuming less fuel. For a second I thought I had just revealed military secrets.

I read a lot. Wants to know if he can fly! I always seemed to say the wrong thing at the wrong time and make a jerk out of myself. After I let out a deep breath, the sergeant caught my eye. A fly boy? Thought you wanted to be a fireman. Learn your trade as a fireman and get some college classes under your belt. Heck, the air force will pay for your tuition. And then after a few years if you want to reenlist, you can apply for a slot.

I understand. Thanks for the advice. I leave next week! I searched their eyes for any kind of reaction to my explosive news. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, I broke the ice. I thought I could find the answers — to my past, to Mother — trying to numb myself about my dad.

My time to make something of myself. My foster parents continued to just sit there. Well …? Alice and Harold, who years ago had adopted me into their hearts, began to nod their heads before exploding with laughter. I shook my head in disgust. This is serious! I mean it! I already signed the paperwork. I mean …? But answer this: Why the service? Working my butt off, for what?

For nothing! Check it out: In four years I can grow and learn, I can explore and see things beyond any picture of any magazine. Sometimes, bad things happen. For some things there are no absolutes. I have to know. I have to find out. Something made them the way they are.

Things do happen for a reason. I want to understand; I want to know. How many kids have you taken in who came from the same kind of homes as me? No one wants to talk about things, let alone deal with the consequences afterward. Be good, be honest and fair, find something I believe in, work hard and keep the faith no matter how long it takes?

In all the years I had known them, they had never seen me so intense, so articulate about my past. I continued in a softer tone. I did not want to screw up and tell them in the wrong way what I felt in my heart. I want a home … my home.