Why take a sick girl you barely know? I heard that through the cracked door at Jerry’s parents’ house.
I was seven, fresh out of my third foster home. Three years in the system already. My mom passed. My dad left before my treatments even started. I showed up with a plastic bag, two shirts, and a folder of medical papers with my name misspelled on the front.
Jerry met me at the community clinic in Charlotte. He volunteered there after work, helping kids with homework. He saw me sitting alone and asked if I wanted a snack. I followed him everywhere that day. He talked to me like I mattered. When he asked if I wanted to come home with him, I nodded before he even finished the question.
He adopted me first. Then he handled the cancer. He took extra shifts, filled out every form, and paid every bill. He sat through treatments, braided my hair when it fell out, and walked slow when I was tired. Years later, I became a nurse. Jerry stood at my pinning ceremony, shaking with pride. I’ve been his girl ever since.
