For months, I’ve been tortured by the sight of this child. IN MY MANHATTAN APARTMENT BUILDING, a mother leaves her two-year-old daughter, Alicia, asleep in her stroller just outside her front door, alone in the hallway for hours. But now, if I can just get some kind of job, take care of me, take care of my kid, then die, that’s enough. Why do something where I can leave my mark on the world? That used to be important to me. I used to want to be a journalist, but why, what’s the point? What’s the point now of anything?. I don’t care about being a writer no more. I was planning on adopting in November but then they kept saying next month, next month. Now I’ve got to change the name of the book. I never got what I was promised, though that’s why it’s hard to believe. It’s called Until November, ’cause that’s when I’m going to be adopted. I’m going to write a book about all the places I’ve lived in foster care-twenty-one homes. To the end of June : the intimate life of American foster care / Cris Beam. The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows: For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
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