Under the cold, dim glow of that streetlight, I felt it all over again—the pain, the betrayal, the hollow ache of abandonment that’s marked my life. Losing Caleb shattered me, but in that devastation, I recognized something familiar, a feeling I’d known since I was barely old enough to speak. The truth is, my story of loss didn’t start with Caleb. It began when I was just two, and it’s a memory that still echoes in the darkest parts of my mind.
I was born Joseph Monroe Robinson, but no one called me that. I was just “Joe,” a curious, bright-eyed toddler with blue eyes and a world that seemed out of my control. I wasn’t alone, though. I had two siblings—John, my older brother by two years, and Tasha, a year older than me. We were a trio of kids, caught in a whirlwind of chaos, confusion, and a life that, even then, seemed determined to break us.
The earliest days with my family are nothing but flashes of memory—blurred, painful, haunting. One of the few things I remember with a chilling clarity is our apartment, filled with the sour smell of cigarettes and beer, and strangers who saw us more like objects than children. One of those nights sticks out more than any other. A man I didn’t know, probably drunk, thought it would be funny to grab a pair of scissors and pretend he’d hurt me. He held them up to my face, laughing as I squirmed and whimpered, too young to understand why someone would be so cruel, but old enough to know I wasn’t safe.
After that, everything moved fast. My mother, Belinda, took me to the Department of Economic Security office, holding a blue cake in her hand. She wanted it to feel like a celebration, but it was a goodbye. She led me down the hallway, her hand slipping from mine, leaving me with strangers and an uncertain future. She didn’t explain; she didn’t say why. She just left, leaving me, her own child, behind. I was two years old, and she was gone. That’s when the real abandonment began.
Even though my mother left, John, Tasha, and I were still together. The foster homes we landed in became our world—a revolving door of strangers, each one colder than the last. For a while, we stayed with a couple named Lynn and Billy Pace. At first, they seemed like they might care. Lynn gave us chalk to draw on the sidewalks, even toys, and there were moments where I almost believed we’d be okay. But Billy was a storm that blew in hard and fast, and nothing could shield us from his rage. One day, while Tasha and I drew on the sidewalk, he came home drunk and furious. He walked up to me and punched me in the head with full force. Everything went black.
When I came to, I was lying in bed, hours had passed, and Lynn was blowing on me to cool me down, too afraid to take me to a hospital. She didn’t want anyone to know, didn’t want the truth to come out. I was just a kid—a burden, a problem no one wanted to deal with.
Eventually, I spoke up. It wasn’t out of bravery; it was desperation. I couldn’t take the abuse anymore, and I let someone at daycare know. That was what finally got us removed from Lynn and Billy’s home. I thought leaving would feel like freedom, but I was wrong. They loaded us into the car and drove us away, all three of us—John, Tasha, and me. It would be one of the last times we’d ever be together.
Lynn pulled over, looked at us with tears in her eyes, and told us we weren’t coming back. She said she wished she could be our “mommy forever,” but it was just another lie, another broken promise from another adult who didn’t really want us. We cried, we begged, but nothing changed. We were just kids, learning that no matter how hard we pleaded, we were powerless. That was the last home we had together before they split us up.
From there, they separated us, scattering us into different foster homes. I never saw John again as a child, and Tasha disappeared from my life for decades. In a moment, the only family I had left was gone. They handed me a small white stuffed dog from DES, a flimsy attempt at comfort. That little stuffed dog became my world. I held it tight, whispered to it, cried into it, clinging to the last bit of security I could find. It was my one connection to a childhood that was slipping further and further away.
Eventually, I ended up with the Richins, the couple who would strip away the last piece of myself. Terry and Teresa promised me a “forever family,” but what they gave me was a life of control and manipulation. They took me to court, changed my name to Terrill Joseph Richins, and demanded I leave “Joe” behind. I became T.J., a name that wasn’t mine, a life that wasn’t mine. They thought they were saving me, but all they did was bury me deeper.
Under that streetlight, the night I lost Caleb, I felt the weight of every one of those moments. The loss, the separation, the feeling of being someone else’s child but never anyone’s priority. I realized that I’d been losing pieces of myself since I was two years old, and that this cycle of abandonment wasn’t just a part of my life—it was my life.
This is more than just a story. This is my truth. My birth certificate, the paper my mother signed to give me up, the adoption records that erased my name—they’re on my website at www.derricksolano.com/truth. They tried to erase me, but they didn’t take my survival. I am scarred, but I am still here. And this is just the beginning.
