Teenage Boy On Trip With His Foster Family Runs Away To Find His Real Family

Eric sat by the campfire, watching the last embers flicker, his thoughts drifting back to the photo he’d tucked away. He pulled it out once more, studying the faded image in the dim light.

Written neatly on the back were the words “Eliza and Eric.” The woman holding him had a faint smile, but he couldn’t remember her at all. Glancing over at the Johnsons’ tent, he felt a pang of guilt. They had always been kind, always treated him with care.

With a sigh, he slipped the photo into his pocket, went to his tent, and picked up his backpack. He checked through its contents—his few belongings, a bottle of water, and the sandwiches Mrs. Johnson had made for him.

She’d even cut the crusts off, remembering how he didn’t like them, just as she had when he first arrived at their home. Small acts like this made him feel seen, but still, he wondered if he truly belonged.

Taking one last look at the campsite, Eric turned and walked down the path toward the main road, the cold air biting at his cheeks.

It was pitch dark, and he switched on the flashlight on his phone, remembering how the Johnsons had handed it to him with a smile. “We need to know our kid is safe,” they’d said. If they really thought of him as their own, wouldn’t they have adopted him by now?

He walked along the road, shivering in the night air, his heart pounding with each step. After hours, he finally saw the dim lights of the diner.

Taking a shaky breath, he stepped inside, eyes adjusting to the gloomy interior. At the counter stood an old man, who looked at him with a frown as Eric approached, photo in hand.