Foster mother Helen had seen dozens of kids find new families and leave her house with happy faces.
It brought a feeling of fulfillment to her heart. But one boy who came to her wasn’t finding his new path, and Helen realized she would need to find a way to help him.
Helen had worked as a foster mother for over ten years, a role that had filled her life with moments of both joy and heartbreak.
She remembered the dozens of children she’d cared for, each one bringing their own story, each journeying toward a fresh start in a new family.
This part—helping them find their way—was the most fulfilling to Helen.
She had a deep-seated belief that every child deserved happiness, and she held onto that dream, even when reality didn’t always cooperate.
But not every child found a permanent home right away. Some children, for reasons Helen often couldn’t fathom, moved from one foster home to another, never quite settling, never quite finding that elusive “forever family.”
One of these children was Mark, a twelve-year-old boy with a look of quiet sadness that rarely lifted.
Mark had been with Helen for a while now, much longer than most children his age. It wasn’t unusual; children his age weren’t often chosen for adoption.
Most families preferred younger kids.
Mark, though, was different. He kept to himself, never joining the other kids in their games or sharing his thoughts openly.
He had a habit of sitting alone, hunched over a chessboard Helen had given him.
For hours, he would sit in silence, playing chess against himself or occasionally challenging Helen.
One afternoon, as usual, Helen found Mark in the corner of the living room, hunched over his chessboard, a slight furrow in his brow.
Helen followed his lead, moving a piece of her own.
“Hmm, okay, let’s try this,” she murmured thoughtfully, hoping to add a little challenge to the game. Mark, however, moved swiftly, countering her moves as if he had anticipated every one of them.
“Checkmate, I won,” he said, his voice as flat and calm as ever, but with a hint of satisfaction in his eyes.
Helen laughed softly, shaking her head. “Yes, you did. You really have a talent for this.”
Mark shrugged. “It’s nothing special; you always play the same way, so it’s easy to win.”
“Mark,” Helen said, her tone warm but firm, “we’ve talked about this—it’s not polite to say that.”
There was a brief pause, and then Mark leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
“Helen, can I ask you a favor?”
Helen raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
“Yes, of course. What’s on your mind, Mark?”
