The Day Someone Chose Me
My name is Destiny, and for most of my life, I believed family was something that happened to other people.
I lost my legs in a car accident when I was three years old. My mother died in that crash, and my father went to prison not long after. I don’t remember much from that time, but I grew up carrying the consequences of it in ways that followed me everywhere.
Over the next twelve years, I moved through four different foster homes.
Each one began with cautious hope. Each one ended the same way—politely, quietly, sometimes with explanations, sometimes without. My wheelchair, the medical care, the extra attention I needed—it was always more than they were willing to hold for long.
By fourteen, I had learned not to expect permanence.
My social worker tried to be honest with me. She said I would likely age out of the system. No promises, no illusions. Just a path forward that meant learning how to stand alone, even without legs to stand on.
I accepted it.
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