After I read about you I wrote a bunch of stuff. Then I walked, prayed, and cried. Some people won’t tell your story out of fear; others only out of fear.
But what I am afraid of is this–that no one will be there to heal the damage, that no one will tell you
none of this is your fault, and little of it needs to define you.
You deserve to survive this. You deserve birthday parties and pony rides, rock climbing and ice cream. You deserve to sit at a table with people who see you, know your story, and say I love you, Stan. You are a great kid..
Just because you were raised by wolves…doesn’t mean you are one.
No, dear, Lamb, you are a boy. Loved by a real Dad…the only one who can heal us all from the monsters, smiling in the picture: so broken.