Antoine Radson sat in the small waiting room, leafing through a copy of The Plateau City Review, but he was barely even noticing the pages. He wasn't used to feeling nervous, not like this. He tried to ignore the voice on TV, and reviewed in his own mind what he was going to say.

A door beside the receptionists' window opened, and a woman stepped into the waiting room. She had a soft figure, and a warm, approachable face. She wore a colorful blouse, and a pair of simple slacks. Antoine noticed her shoes were athletic wear. "Mister Radson?" She called.

"Here," Antoine replied setting the magazine down. He got up and followed her into the back offices.

"My name's Elisabeth Rouse, Liz. Welcome!" The woman led him to her room, and gestured him in. There were two arm chairs, and a love seat at one end. Shelves with various books, fidget toys and a few plush animals lined the walls. Her desk and roller chair were at the other end, a small work station complete with notebooks, and a laptop computer.

"Please, have a seat."

"Thanks," Antoine replied. He was stiffly over to the love seat and sat down in the corner. He looked over to the end table where a box of tissues sat next to a little box of fidgets. At least, that's what he called them. Small toys to entertain the hands, various shapes, sizes and textures.

"Help yourself," Liz offered, reading his body.

"Thanks," Antoine repeated. He rummaged around and pulled out a koosh ball: a toy made of thin rubber cords that extended from a core, it looked a bit like fur. He tossed it from hand to hand. It had a comfortable weight, a satisfying feel.

Liz walked over to her desk and opened a draw. She removed a digital recorder, and an SD card. "Do you mind if I record our session?"

Antoine eyed the recorder uncertainly. "I... uh..." he hesitated.

"If not, that's fine, but let me reassure you it will be kept completely confidential. I'll still be taking notes, of course, but I like to be able to replay our conversations."

Antoine shook his head. "No, that's okay. I'm fine with it."

"Okay." She set it on the coffee table and took a seat in the arm chair adjacent to him. "And, of course, if there's anything you don't feel comfortable having recorded, of you change your mind for whatever reason, we can always turn it off."

Antoine nodded. "Okay; gotcha. Thanks."

Liz lifted the recorder, popped up the microphone and turned it towards him. She pushed a button on the side. A little red LED blinked on. "We're recording, this is Doctor Liz Rouse, with Antoine Radson. This is our first session. Antoine has agreed to be recorded for this session; is that correct?"

"Yes," Antoine replied, staring at the recorder, squeezing the koosh ball. "It is." He tugged at the rubber fur nervously, drumming his feet on the floor.

Liz gave him a reassuring smile. She lifted her stenography pad to her lap. "Alright, Antoine, let's begin. Please, tell me a bit about your self."

"I'm not really sure where to begin," Antoine replied, squeezing the ball between his hands.

"Well, let's start with why you're here. What brought you to come visit me today, Antoine?"

Antoine licked his lips and tried to cease the restless tapping of his feet. He focused on the ball in his hands. "Well, I met this guy, and I really love him. I proposed to him, he said yes." Antoine paused, thinking.

"Well those are two good things," Liz prompted.

"Yeah, they are. The thing is, I have no idea how to be a good husband. And I'd kinda like kids someday, but I'm probably totally incapable of being a responsible parent. So... it's not like I'm having cold feet. I just have some stuff, you know, and I want to try and work through it."

Liz nodded. "Does your fiancé know you're here?"

Antoine shook his head, wrapping the strands of rubber around his fingers. "Nah. I didn't tell him. I said I was just going out for a bit to clear my mind, I wasn't sure how to bring it up."

Liz jotted down a few notes. "How does he feel about the idea of therapy?"

"Oh, he's been through it himself. He's pretty open to it, honestly. I just... I don't want him thinking my fucked-up-ness is something he caused. I'm a bit of a head case, more than he knows, honestly. I haven't told him too much about my childhood, my upbringing, if you could call it that."

"Why not?"

"Because it probably would upset him."

"So why don't you tell me then?" Liz asked. Start at the beginning. "What's your earliest memory, Antoine?"

Antoine chuckled, but there was no humor in his tone. "Earliest memory? Well that would probably be when the police raided the flop house where my mom was staying."

I really don't remember the place well. I was about two at the time. I don't remember too much. I don't think I was abused exactly, mostly neglected. Probably they dumped Cheerios in a dog dish, water in another, and let nature take it's course. Sorry, trying to be funny, but I guess this really isn't something to joke about.

My mom, I don't know anything about her really. All I know is that she was underage herself. She was twelve, maybe thirteen when she got pregnant, and Lord can only guess at who my father might've been. She was a runaway, and whether she started off doing sex and drugs, whether she was trafficked, or whether that was a coping mechanism, who knows right? As a minor herself, those filed were sealed and expunged years ago.

That was down state, or maybe New Jersey. I guess that doesn't matter much either. After the raid, I was put into the foster system, and transferred here.

"Tell me what you remember about the raid."

Okay, well, I remember everybody started yelling. There were a lot of people in that house. It seems huge when I remember it. Lots of people. There was pounding at the door, and everyone's panicking, grabbing stuff, hiding it, flushing it. As if that would make a difference.

Then the police knocked the door off the hinges and came in. I got knocked by one of the housemates. He didn't mean to, I think, but he was trying to get out the fire escape. I ran and hid under the bed. Packed myself against the back wall as far under as I could get.

I remember them looking around with flashlights, grabbing people, hauling them away. This one officer - man, I can still remember his face! - he lifts up the sheet that covered the bed. "We've got a baby in here!" he yelled.

I don't remember every detail, it's a bit blurry. They tried coaxing me out, and I wasn't budging. Eventually one officer lifted up the bed, it was just a cheap wire frame thing, and another grabbed me. I tried to fight. I screamed, I cried for my mom.

I saw her on the floor as they were carrying me out, an officer pinning her to the ground. Or maybe he was checking to make sure she was still alive. Maybe both. I honestly don't know.

The next few years are a bit hazy. I was in the system longer than most because little white kids because I was a "crack baby," or at least that's what potential adopters probably thought. That, and I was passed the cute little baby stage.

I saw pictures of me in my case file. I was a homely little thing when they found me: dirty, sunken face, hollow eyes, stringy hair. Not starving, but not thriving either. Alive, that's about the best I can say.

"What else do you remember from your childhood?"

Oh, where to begin? Well, my mom never took me back, and her family didn't want me. As far as I figured out, her parents wanted to focus on getting her straightened out, into rehab and all that, and didn't have time for a drug baby.

"Do you think you're a drug baby? That's the second time you've made such a reference."

Nah... yes... maybe? I dunno. I guess it's another attempt at a joke, but it's not a good one. I mean, you remember the studies in the eighties and nineties that said babies born to drug addicts would grow up to have all sorts of disabilities and behavioral problems? They debunked that now, but back then I'm sure it had an impact on who adopted me.

The foster home, it wasn't bad, they tried their best. But it was hard. And by the time I was adopted I already knew where I was and what was going on. I was very nervous with my first family, and every time someone knocked on the door I would hurl myself under the bed or behind the couch. Any place I could think of to hide.

I thought the cops were coming back. It must've made things tough on my first parents.

To be honest though, I don't really want to go through the list of the various homes. None of them worked out. It's pretty much the same story every time:

Go to a new home, stay a few months, get put back in the system. Lather, rinse, repeat.

"So no home really felt like a family to you?"

Nope.

"Not even one?"

Antoine shifted his weight.

Okay, yeah, you're right. There was the one, Debbie and Marcus. I've even reconnected with them on social media and in real life. We've met up a few times. I think of them as my parents, but there's a lot of catching up to do. I was eleven, twelve when I lived with them. That's what we think anyhow, I didn't have a real birth certificate. My mom apparently had me on her own and never reported it.

Anyhow, I've reconnected with them, yes; but there's about twenty five years of backstory between then and now. And, I guess, to be perfectly honest, I'm a little nervous of getting too close emotionally, even though I do think of them as my parents.

Debbie, she worked, and Marcus was a helicopter pilot. He flew tour choppers, and used to take me up with him.

Once my feet left the ground, I felt a sort of peace like I'd never known before. I realize that flying helicopters is what I wanted to do for a living. Marcus even showed me the basic controls, not that I ever touched them of course.

I thought I'd found my forever home. It would up not being that way.

Marcus had heart trouble, he wound up needing a bypass. I didn't know much about it at the time, but Debbie explained it as best she could. With him out of work, she had to work extra shifts for the money.

They didn't want to leave me home alone, I was only twelve after all, so we decided I'd stay with Nana and Poppa, my grandparents - Marcus's parents - up in Schenectady.

Child Services was not okay with that.

They said since Marcus's parents weren't pre-screened, and I was not formally adopted yet, though Debbie and Marcus had been filling out the paperwork until he got sick, that I had to go back into the system.

Child Services told Debbie and Marcus that I'd got back to them when they were able to care for me. I told them that was a lie. I threw a complete fit, went pretty off the rails, honestly. Little scrawny blond kid trying to fight off these beefy social workers to stay with my parents. I didn't want to leave, I loved them!

But, well, you know how that went, and I ended back in the system.

It was about then, honestly, that I really started developing "behavioral problems." I became one of those troubled kids you read about. They sent me to state mandated counseling. The therapist there said I had "attachment issues, abandonment issues," and a host of other things.

I think there was a personality disorder in there as well. I'm not sure. I didn't believe it. I still don't.

I started struggling in school. Especially in subjects that required reading. These days they'd probably test me for a learning disorder or something, but back then it was viewed by the teachers as obstinance.

That, and I tried to make myself out to be the class clown.

Instead of saying "hey, maybe he's got some sort of reading problem," they'd just chalk it up to a bad work ethic and apathy.

My reputation continued to go downhill. In my last home, I ditched them on a vacation in Hawaii. I caught a cab down to the beach and spent the entire day with the surfers.

It was great! It was the first time I truly felt happy since being in the air, you know? I can still remember how warm the sun felt, how clear the water was. These guys were really chill, even let me try with their boards. I wasn't good, but I had a great time...

... until the cops and my foster parents showed up. And then I was back in the system the next week. That was my last foster home.

I went back in the group facility. That's when I started skipping school. I'd either disappear at the bus stop, or I'd wait till I got to school and take off running. You'd think they'd try catching me, but I guess it wasn't that important.

I started getting into petty street crime. Nothing major, no drugs or anything. Just little things, you know, making money. I was a scrawny thirteen year old kid. I blended in pretty well to the rough parts of town.

I actually started my first "job," if you want to call it that.

"What did you do?"

Well, it's one of these unbelievable stories. Somehow I got the reputation for being trustworthy on the streets. The sort of person who would watch for cops while someone else took the rims off a car, or busted a window to lift the stereo. Back then, stereo-jacking was a big trade. These days, most of those things don't play outside of the car they were installed in. Security features, I guess. But back then, things were different.

I'd keep a look out, and then they'd slide me a few bills for my trouble. Not much, but it was definitely something, and big money for a kid like me!

Well, somehow I got in with this group who owned a "garage," and I use the term loosely. It was a chop shop near where the alley where I'd hang out when I wanted to rest a bit.

They flagged me down and asked if I wanted to make some decent cash. I said "of course!" So they got me into the shop, and I'd work pulling apart the small parts of the cars. Nothing major, but enough to definitely be illegal. Not that they cared, and not that I did either.

I probably would've graduated to grand theft auto if it hadn't been for that fateful day, on a miserable January morning.

It was just after winter break. I decided to skip the first day of school. I thought a snow day would be fun. Do you remember that thaw that happened about fifteen years ago? The one that that brought record heat to New York in January?

Of course it was that day I skipped. It felt warm, felt like spring! I was loving it... then it started to rain.

I don't mean that gentle pitter-patter stuff. I mean hard rain, miserable rain. The sort that makes you cold to the bone. I was walking down the street, wishing I'd actually gone to school and wondering if my feet were going to freeze off when I saw a church up ahead.

"A church? That's very symbolic."

I know, right? The Lutheran Church of the Redeemer. So I decide, screw it. I've never been a religious person, but I needed someplace to warm up before I caught hypothermia... or caught it worse... and this seemed like the only safe option.

I let myself in and sat down in the back pew, trying to thaw my hands.

It was a huge place, beautiful. Looked more like a cathedral to me than a simple church. There were ten stained glass windows in the nave, sanctuary, whatever you want to call it. Each one depicting a scene from the Stations of the Cross.

There was one on the north transept, one on the south, and one right behind the altar. After a while I warmed up a bit, and started moving. I walked along, looking at the windows. I realized they started at Two, and ended at Fourteen. That confused me. I kept looking for One.

As I approached the crossing, that spot before the alter I heard a voice.

"We generally don't see children in here at this hour."

I looked over, and sitting in the front row of pews was this woman. The pastor. She had this ageless face; like she looked young, but also not. Like an angel or something. It was hard to get an idea how old she was. Probably about the age I am now. White vestments, colorful stole, the whole ensemble.

When she spoke to me, I felt a surge of fear, that I was clearly not supposed to be here and she'd turn me out, or worse, call the police.

But she didn't do either of those things!

Instead, she beckoned me closer. "Come, sit," she said gently.

I noticed the pew up front was padded, not like the one I'd been in at the back. "I'll get the seat wet," I replied, tucking my hands under my arms. "I don't want to ruin it."

"What can be damped, can also be dried," she answered.

Our conversation that followed, I can't remember the exact words, but again that's not really important. Her name was Pastor Julie, and she was the pastor for the church. We talked about a lot of things, time seemed to melt away. So too did my fear that she'd be mad at me. She seemed, if anything, a little sad as I told her my story. At least the abridged parts I felt like sharing right then.

She'd come to learn more over time.

We talked. She even gave me some cookies and a box of juice from the fellowship hall downstairs. She even put my wet coat in the drier! She asked me why I was skipping school, and what I was planning to do with my life.

I told her the truth, that I was pretty much on my own.

She didn't tell me to get my butt back to school, and she didn't raise any false hopes of me finding a family either.

"If you're going to start your journey so young," she told me, "you need a plan." She told me wanting to become a helicopter pilot wasn't enough. "Lots of people want things," she explained, "but you have to take the first step towards getting them."

"The whole, 'God helps those who help themselves' bit?"

Yep, but she wasn't preachy about it. She was down to earth. Before I left, she showed me a picture on the wall, above the front door. Station One. I hadn't seen it when I came in.

So... I'm going to fast forward a bit, do you mind?

"Not at all, Antoine, this is your time."

Cool. Thanks.

Okay, so Pastor Julie... she was who helped me through the worst spots. My chances of being adopted as a teen with "behavioral problems" were slim to none. My school didn't even think I was a student anymore, and I realized under New York State Law I could become my own person. They call it becoming an emancipated minor. Fourteen's awfully young, but in my eyes it beat rotting in foster care till they kicked me out at eighteen.

Pastor Julie? I couldn't have done it without her help!

"Why's that?"

Well, to become emancipated, you first need to be able to prove financial independence. My money was cash only, I didn't have a bank account, and I didn't have a legit address aside from the group home. Pastor Julie let me use her place as my address. I was about to open my first bank account, and start depositing what I made on the street.

I had proof of income. I had a "legal address."

There was a lot of finagling on my part, I'm going to confess, but I'm pretty good at smooth talking. I can get my way. I might not be smart, but I know how people work, and I'm generally pretty good at telling them exactly what they need to hear.

I dropped out of school.

With a "residence," and a bank account that showed impressive income for a kid, and a clean criminal record, I was able to get my emancipation when I was fourteen. I didn't have a real home yet, but I didn't need to tell Child Services that. And, let's be honest, sometimes follow-up isn't all it should be. I guess I got lucky with the bureaucracy, you know?

That summer, I lived on the street. I camped out under an overpass most of the time.

"What did Pastor Julie think of that?"

She worried about me, but she knew that I had to find my own path. As the weather got colder though, I would occasionally sleep on her back porch. It was enclosed, and there was a couch out there.

In winter I'd often find a thermos of hot cocoa and several heavy blankets on the couch. Heck, she even put a space heater out there for me!

"Did she offer this to you, or did you ask?"

Neither. When it started getting cold she remarked one day after service that sometimes she "forgot" to lock her back porch. That whole, wink and a nod thing. I knew what she was implying. It saved both of us from having to ask or tell. I never went inside her house, but it was a true blessing knowing there was someone looking out for me.

I would occasionally "forget" a few five dollar bills on her porch, just like she "forgot" to lock the door.

I still worked at the chop shop, and started doing more intense maintenance and repairs. I learned how to drive too. When summer came around, I often worked late and slept at the yard in one of the old cars. The boss man had a pair of mean dogs, I think they were mutant Rottweilers or something. Anyhow, he told me I was welcome to crash in a car at his yard, but once he closed the gate and let the dogs out, I'd better stay in the car or the dogs would tear me to shreds.

I believed him too!

I tried stepping out one night to answer the call of nature, and whoa boy I was glad I was right next to the car. Those things ripped the bumper and mirrors off trying to get at me. Lesson learned, right?

When I was sixteen I bought my first car, but I didn't have a license. Granted I'd been driving for several years by then, but I needed to make it legal. Pastor Julie once again let me use her street address as my residence.

I took one of the shop cars to the the Department of Motor Vehicles for my road test - yeah, I drove to my own driving test - and I passed with flying colors.

Later, I bought that car. I still have her. I call her "Bessie." She's more rust than car now, probably was then too, but I now I'm going off on a topic.

Anyhow, Pastor Julie, she's the one who kept pushing me, holding out that carrot of becoming a chopper pilot as a carrot, and not letting me forget my dreams. With her gentle but insistent pressure, I went back to school, I got my high school G.E.D.

I invited her to my graduation, and she actually came! I was the proudest kid there!

She really helped me turn my life around. If she hadn't gotten involved, I'd never be where I am now. I would've have gone to flight school, I wouldn't have gotten a job, bought a house... met the love of my life... it's funny how things work out. If I hadn't skipped school that day, if if hadn't rained, who knows where I would've wound up, you know?

Liz nodded, as Antoine finished his story.

Antoine found he'd relaxed as he'd talked, his feet had stopped their restless tapping, the ball sat comfortably in his hands. "I guess that about sums up my origin tale," Antoine said, attempting to crack a joke. "What do you think?"

Liz set her notepad down next to the recorder. "I think you're a very self-motivated young man. Pastor Julie might've guided you, but she didn't do it for you. You did that all yourself, against the odds, and without having a family to direct you."

Antoine rubbed the back of his neck, and regarded the loose ball. "What do you think I should do about Preston though? My fiancé? I don't want to screw his life up."

"You're not going to 'screw that up,' Antoine," Liz replied, folding your hands. "He said yes, that alone should tell you something right there."

"It does, but it's complicated. We're not like a normal couple." Antoine glanced at the clock on Liz's desk. Her eyes followed his. "I guess that's a story for another day, huh."

"If you feel like coming back, and talking about it more, then yes; it definitely can be."

Antoine tossed the loose ball into the basket next to the couch. "I'd like that," he replied. "I think it'll help."

"That's what I'm here for," Liz replied. She stood up and switched off the recorder. The session was at an end. Antoine followed her out through the hallway to the waiting room where they said their goodbyes, then loped down the front steps to the street below.

He caught a bus, mind whirling as he watched the city scroll past. Pastor Julie... how long had it been since he'd talked to her? He wondered if she was still at the same address. I should send her a letter, he decided, and began writing it in his head.