Max’s big brown eyes made me feel helpless as we discussed the secrets of the Thanksgiving menu. Probably contributed to the fact that he was six years old, but nonetheless, he captured my heart. The jeans he was wearing were torn at the knees and the shoes were to be thrown away. He would need a long, warm, soapy bath as well as a haircut of messy, yellow-red curls. Still, my little Max was a cute sixth gear bomb.
He's not yours.
I wish it was, but the rules were quite clear when it came to the ‘help’ we could provide to children coming to the South Chicago Youth Center. As much as she wanted to take Max and Allie, his twin sister, home, it couldn't happen. I was not allowed to buy them clothes, shoes, or school supplies. I was not allowed to take them to Chuck E. Cheese’s restaurant fo
