I watched my first-grade foster son jump down from the yellow school bus, his short legs running down our long gravel driveway on a cool, sunny February afternoon. I stepped away from the window over the sink and opened the half-glass paned kitchen door to greet him.
Dark brown eyes twinkled above his pug nose and wide grin. His caramel-colored hand clutched silhouettes of U. S. Presidents Washington and Lincoln glued to red construction paper. Before I could say, “Where’s your lunchbox?” Jacob thrust the thin-faced, long-nosed, bearded profile toward me.
“That was George Washington,” I said, pointing to the curly wigged, clean-shaven outline.
Astonishment flashed across his face. “Wow, Mom! Did you know him?”
Author’s note: Jacob is a fictitious substitute for this adult, former foster child. My name and profile are set in stone.