Now if his life were one of those movies Vince's family used to watch every Friday night, he would've had a happy ending.
He and his siblings would have stayed together.
They would have had each other's backs through it all, grown up side by side, holding one another up through both the hard times and the happy ones.
They would have carried their pain and learned to laugh in spite of it.
Okay, maybe they would've needed therapy. A lot of therapy.
But they would have been okay in the end. Or if not okay, then at least together.
Unfortunately, this was not a movie.
This was the real world.
And the real world is rarely kind.
The problem was simple — Vince was nine by the time he was put into the foster care system.
By then, he had seen a house filled with screaming, beatings, and bruises. It scarred him.
Because of that, he was small and jittery, angry without quite knowing why, and terrified of being touched even when no hand was raised.
