My name is Claire, and I grew up in foster care, moving so often that I learned not to unpack or get too attached. By the time I arrived at my last group home, I had made peace with the idea that stability wasn’t meant for me. That changed the day I met Noah, a quiet boy in a wheelchair who spent most afternoons by the window observing the world. I sat beside him with a book and made a joke about sharing the view. He smiled, introduced himself, and from that moment on, we became constants in each other’s lives. We grew up side by side, sharing late-night conversations, inside jokes, and the unspoken understanding that we were each other’s chosen family.
When we aged out of the system, we walked out together carrying our belongings in plastic bags, unsure of what adulthood would look like but certain we’d face it as a team. We found a small apartment, worked multiple jobs, enrolled in community college, and built a quiet life out of thrifted furniture and determination. Somewhere along the way, friendship softened into love—not with grand declarations, but with small acts of care and steady presence. When Noah proposed in our tiny kitchen with a simple question about building a future together, I said yes before he could finish. Our wedding was modest, full of laughter and secondhand decorations, but it felt rich in everything that mattered. That night, we fell asleep as newlyweds, believing the hardest chapters were behind us.
