The studio apartment felt smaller every day. The idea of a crying infant in that tiny space felt like a looming disaster. The constant stress eventually triggered an early labor. Sarah was only eight months along when the baby arrived.
The boy was born small and fragile. The neonatologist sat them down with a grim expression, explaining that because of the premature birth, the baby had significant orthopedic issues. He told them the boy would likely face a lifetime of physical therapy and might never walk normally.
Sarah looked at the tiny, struggling infant in the NICU isolette, surrounded by tubes and monitors. She felt a profound sense of detachment. When the hospital cleared her to go home three days later, she sat Nate down for a heart-to-heart that would change everything.
After hours of agonizing talk, they reached a cold, desperate conclusion: they couldn’t do this. They didn’t have the money, the space, or the emotional strength to raise a child with special needs. They signed the papers to surrender their parental rights.
The boy, whom the social workers named Ben, grew up in the foster care system. Despite his rough start, Ben was a bright, resilient kid. He had a sharp mind and a natural gift for logic. The doctors’ predictions about his legs were partially right—he had a pronounced limp—but he refused to use a wheelchair, pushing himself to walk with a cane.
For years, Ben held onto the typical foster kid dream: that one day, his “real” parents would realize they’d made a mistake and come to get him. He imagined a warm house and a father who would play catch with him. But by the time he turned sixteen, the dream had withered away.
He accepted the harsh reality. He was on his own. If he wanted a future, he would have to build it from scratch. He poured all his frustration and energy into the one thing that made sense to him: computers.
