(As written by Lori Dunn):
Before Michael and I were married, we talked about the kind of family we hoped to build. Somewhere between practical plans and hopeful dreaming, I shared a desire I’d carried for years—to foster and someday adopt children. Michael didn’t hesitate. He was all in. We were both the youngest of four, so four children felt like a perfect number to us. Still, we used to laugh and joke, “When we have our nine kids…” It was said lightly—but underneath it was something real. Having both worked with teens through youth ministry, we knew we wanted to make a difference in the lives of children and teens.
Three and a half years into our marriage, we had our first child, Kaitlin. We were smitten! Becoming parents was everything we hoped it would be. Jeffrey and Kelly followed, and life became busy, noisy, joyful, and challenging. But the idea of fostering never went away.
Through our children’s preschool, we met a foster mom. She and her husband had already raised biological children and were now caring for several kids in foster care. Talking to her about the process made us feel that it was time for us to take the plunge. There was a lot involved—paperwork, classes, background checks—but we stuck with it. The day before we were officially licensed, we got a call about an 11-month-old baby girl who needed placement.
The next morning, my friend Dawn and I dropped our kids off at preschool and drove together to pick up the little one from an emergency placement. I still remember the first time I saw her—Amelia, with deep brown eyes that held confusion… and something like guarded suspicion. She didn’t cry. She just watched. From the start, we learned she was one of five siblings, but there wasn’t a home that could take them all together, so they had been split into separate placements. When we brought her home, she sat quietly taking everything in. It was as if she was trying to figure out who we were and whether we could be trusted.
By that afternoon, something shifted. The kids were home from preschool, and together we gently folded Amelia into the rhythm of our home. There were toys, laughter, curious little voices—and slowly, Amelia began to respond. By evening, she was playing. Even laughing. At first, her body stayed stiff when we held her. She didn’t hug back. But we held her anyway.
That first day wasn’t without its surprises. As I cuddled her, I noticed tiny flecks in her hair. Yikes! Lice. So when Michael came home from work and met Amelia for the first time, we welcomed him quickly—and then rushed off to the pharmacy together, a slightly chaotic but strangely bonding beginning.
Over the next weeks, we watched her start to relax. Her eyes grew brighter, her expressions softer, and she began returning our hugs. Amelia began walking and talking and filled our home with her distinctive husky little laugh. Kaitlin and Jeffrey were protective of her. Kelly, close in age, shared hand-me-downs and affection with ease. Amelia had become part of our family.
During the six months she lived with us, Amelia struggled with frequent ear infections and strep throat, and eventually needed tubes in her ears. When we took her to the hospital for her surgery, we were able to meet her mom and newborn baby brother. Each week, a social worker would pick her up for visits with her mom and siblings. She would come home exhausted and whiny, but would settle back into our routines the next day.
Then came the news: her siblings had been reunited with their mother, and Amelia would soon follow. We were given about a week to prepare—a week to say goodbye to a child who had become part of our lives. Friends came by to see her one last time. We held her a little longer, watched her a little more closely, and memorized the sound of her laugh.
On the day of reunification, Michael and I drove her to her mom ourselves. We left our three children with a neighbor—it felt like too much for them to carry. Her mom, Alyssa, was kind and grateful, clearly doing her best. We exchanged numbers and promised to stay in touch. And we did.
For the next year and a half, Amelia came to stay with us monthly. We got to know her mom and siblings a little during pickups and drop-offs. At first, Amelia was quiet with her family, but over time she adjusted. Occasionally, there were reminders of her challenges—a spiral fracture from a bunk bed fall and a mom stretched thin with limited support.
But then, our visits stopped. Her mom called to say she had tested positive for drugs, and her children had been removed again. She asked if I could try to have Amelia placed with us. I called multiple times, but the system was in upheaval after recent tragedies that had shaken foster care in our county. When I finally got through, I learned Amelia had been placed with her baby brother, and they didn’t want to disrupt that. And just like that… she was gone from our lives.
Life moved forward. We fostered again and eventually adopted a little boy, Joshua, who became a permanent member of our family. But we never forgot Amelia. I kept a small box for her—photos, memories, and a tiny porcelain mouse Jeffrey had picked out. I hadn’t sent it with her, afraid it would break in the chaos of her world. Every few years, I tried searching for her or her family, but never found anything.
Then, 23 years later, something nudged me to try again. This time, I searched for one of her siblings. And I found something: a post from a sister searching for their older sister. There was a very old photo of all five siblings—with Amelia right in the middle. I reached out and shared who I was. Her sister responded. Amelia wasn’t on social media, but her sister would pass along my contact information. A few days later, I got a text. Then a call. We arranged to meet for lunch in Fresno, about three hours away.
Seeing her again as an adult after last knowing her as a toddler was surreal. She told us about her life: abuse in foster care, adoption with two siblings, leaving her adoptive home at sixteen, finishing high school while staying with friends. Despite it all, she had built a life for herself with resilience and determination.
We shared our memories of her—how much we had all adored her, the joy she brought to our home. I gave her a small album of photos that I had put together the night before. She was very touched by that. She shared that it filled a gap in her past in a way that was really meaningful to her. She didn’t remember her time with her mom or us, but had created a story in her mind that she had always been unloved. She said it meant so much to know how much we loved her and to see the photos with her bright smile and sparkling eyes—and to realize that she had been happy for a time as a baby.
We’ve stayed in touch since then. She’s become a mother herself. She’s called me for advice, sent along photos of her little girl, shared pieces of her life, and continues to build her future with strength and determination.
Most foster stories don’t come full circle like this. But this one did. And what stays with me most isn’t just that we found her again—it’s that, even after all those years, something as simple and powerful as knowing she had been truly loved as a baby made such a difference.
Lori Dunn, Contributor