After that day with Lynn and Billy, when they took my siblings and me from the home we knew, everything changed. It was as if every familiar face, every last piece of safety, was ripped away, leaving us with strangers and a system that saw us as little more than names on a file. They kept John, Tasha, and me together for a while after leaving Lynn and Billy’s, but soon enough, we were scattered—split into different foster homes, our lives unraveling in different directions. The bond we shared, the only constant in a life of chaos, was broken. And with it, my sense of family, my sense of self, started to disintegrate.
Those next few homes blurred together. I was moved from house to house, each one colder than the last, with people who didn’t know me, who didn’t care to. Every time I’d get somewhat comfortable, the state would shuffle me off to the next “placement.” I was just another foster kid. By the time I ended up with the Richins, I was already a ghost of myself—a kid who knew that “family” was just a word people threw around, a promise they didn’t mean to keep.
Terry and Teresa Richins were different, though. They weren’t just another stop on the foster care conveyor belt. They weren’t supposed to be temporary. The Richins offered me what no one else had dared to promise—a forever home. They said they’d take care of me, make me one of their own, give me a place to belong. For a brief moment, I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d finally be safe.
But promises have a way of turning on you. I learned that the hard way when Terry and Teresa took me to court and erased the last piece of me that connected me to John, to Tasha, to the life I’d lost. My name, Joseph Monroe Robinson, was gone. Terry wanted to rename me after himself, and so they gave me a new identity: Terrill Joseph Richins. They even gave me a nickname, “T.J.,” expecting me to adopt this new version of myself as if it were a gift.
But that new name, that identity they forced on me, didn’t feel like a gift. It felt like a prison. They were erasing the boy who’d lost his siblings, who’d survived a twisted childhood, who’d been left behind again and again. “T.J.” wasn’t the name of the kid who knew what betrayal felt like, who knew the sting of abandonment. “T.J.” was who they wanted me to be, someone they could mold, control, someone who would fit neatly into their picture-perfect family.
Behind closed doors, Teresa’s smiles turned to cold stares. She was the type who could turn her charm on and off like a switch. In public, she played the role of the doting mother, but at home, she expected me to fall in line. Every time I acted out, every time I showed a glimpse of the person I was, she’d remind me of my “place,” of how lucky I was to be part of their family. It was as if my very existence needed constant correction, and every step out of line was met with a reminder that I was only there by her grace.
It didn’t take long for me to realize that “forever family” meant compliance. I had to stifle my feelings, bury every trace of the life I’d known, and become the kid they wanted me to be. I was supposed to be grateful, to act like I belonged. But how could I belong when every part of me—every scar, every memory, every piece of my name—was erased? The Richins didn’t just want to adopt me; they wanted to reprogram me, to scrub out any history that didn’t fit into their vision of family.
At night, I’d lie awake in the bed they gave me, staring at the ceiling, clinging to the last fragments of who I’d been. I’d think about John and Tasha, wonder if they even remembered me, if they missed me as much as I missed them. I’d think about my old life, about the boy named Joe, who had blue eyes and a family he thought would always be there. But that boy was fading, replaced by “T.J.,” a kid who knew better than to hope.
This wasn’t just the loss of a name. It was the loss of my identity. I was becoming someone else, someone the Richins could accept, someone who wouldn’t make waves or ask questions. I had no choice but to adapt. To survive in their world, I had to bury Joe, bury every memory, every connection to my past, and let T.J. take over. But no matter how hard I tried to fit in, I was never enough. Teresa had a way of making sure I felt that in everything I did, in every way I was or wasn’t “good enough.”
I became quiet, withdrawn, almost robotic, a survival mechanism to keep myself safe. I learned not to speak up, not to show too much emotion, to become a shadow in my own life. The only glimpses of myself I could hold onto were buried deep, hidden behind walls I built to protect what was left of the boy who’d once been Joseph.
That night, standing under the streetlight, I realized just how much of myself I’d lost. Losing Caleb had ripped open the wounds of my past, forcing me to face the hollow places, the parts of me that had been taken away piece by piece. Caleb was gone, but so was John, so was Tasha, so was the kid I used to be. In the silence of that night, I vowed that I wouldn’t lose anything more. I wouldn’t let them erase any more of me.
If you want to see the proof of who I was—the birth certificate with my real name, the papers my mother signed, the adoption records that turned me into someone else—it’s all there. Visit www.derricksolano.com/truth. You’ll see how they tried to rewrite me, how they thought they could erase my story. But I’m still here. I am scarred, I am broken, but I am unbreakable. And this is only the beginning.
