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How did I end up on a fancy private jet with an entire family when it took me eight years to find one a few decades ago?

That said — I was a lucky kid.

My mother, Maria Gonzales, passed away with a needle in her arm when I was two and a half. The babysitter found me playing with the pots and pans on the floor in the kitchen wearing a day-old dirty diaper. The refrigerator door was open, the milk curdled, the food well on its way to rot. The single spotty memory I retained from that day was the earsplitting sound of my sitter’s high-pitched scream when she walked into the living room and spotted Mom dead on the couch.

I found out later that Dad was a one night stand, had never been in the picture, and the only thing I knew about him was that she’d given me his first name. No relatives on Mom’s side were interested in stepping up to the plate and I became a ward of the State of Massachusetts. I was a favorite among foster parents for the first two go arounds because I looked cute and cherubic.

That was before my learning disabilities became apparent. Before the ADD, OCD, whatever-the-D traits bubbled to the surface. I couldn’t concentrate and acted out. Kindergarten reports stated, “Aiden is very bright but can’t focus.” “Aiden interrupts other children during school.” “We recommend Aiden receive psychiatric evaluation.”

The older I grew the more I heard words like “high maintenance”, “overly sensitive” “on the spectrum”. Foster care parents changed shifts like drivers on leased cars. I was eight-years-old and on my seventh home when I met Agnes and John Black. They were in their late fifties, too old by agency’s standards to stand a chance at adopting.

But the Blacks had persevered, sending in detailed, lengthy applications to multiple organizations, including referrals from respected friends and clergy, writing letters why they wanted a family so very badly. They finally succeeded in adopting a nine-year-old girl a few years before I came on the scene.

Sydney was also born to a mother with a drug problem and had bounced in and out of facilities until she found a forever home with the Blacks. She was a wild child, a handful, but I could tell from framed pictures on the walls and the videos they shared that they reveled in her. Enveloped her in attention, a ‘Let’s try that again’ attitude, and loved her willful self to pieces.

Agnes and John Black were devout Catholics in that cool way where Jesus was kind, God was honorable, and the saints were aunties and uncles with super powers assigned to special events and spiritual outings. My new caseworker contacted them when my latest case of foster parents threw their hands up over my latest mess-up.

They met with me at the group home. We watched animated movies on TV. They showed up for my basketball games after school. We shared meals, attended church, and met three times a week with the caseworker. One night before they dropped me back at the group home after an outing Mrs. Black asked me if I’d like to live with them.

I asked them why.

They said they had always wanted a son and thought I’d be the perfect kid for that job.

I asked them if they were crazy.

They said, yes, they’d been accused of that for quite some time.

And just like that—in a moment I’d given up hoping for—I had a family. It should have been a relief. I should have been able to take a breath but I couldn’t. I’d spent so much time sliding in and out of temporary situations it never dawned on me that this situation with the Blacks would be any different.

The months flew by as I fought with my new sister. Sydney knew everything and loved to boss me around.

Another year passed. Agnes and John appeared older than the other parents that showed up for baseball practice and school plays. Their hair was streaked with silver, their faces cross-hatched with wrinkles. Everyone in our family had different skin tones. We were a mish-mash of white, tan and cocoa. But none of that mattered. Laughter mattered. Arms to hold me were a huge improvement. Love was an unexpected bonus.

The third year ticked by. I struggled with a few, not all, social skills. I messed up and lost my temper in science class. But with the help of the Blacks I figured it out. I wasn’t a perfect kid nor was I a horrible one. And yet I was still living in the same place with people who seemed to genuinely care about me. A feeling knit deep in my bones, This was for real.

This was the good stuff.

This was forever.

I was home.

I wondered if this was how the members of the Accardi family felt too.