Story Of A 29-Year-Old Single Dad Who Grew Up In Foster Care Adopted Five Siblings So They Wouldn’t Be Separated

August 29, 2025
|In News
|By Prince Ea

Sometimes life breaks us before it teaches us. Especially when you’re a kid. Especially when the people you trust the most — your parents, your family — can’t give you what you need. That’s not your fault. But it becomes your reality. And for children in the foster care system, that reality can mean more than just losing a home — it can mean losing your brothers, your sisters, your only sense of connection in a world that already feels uncertain.

Now imagine if someone who went through that — someone who had been pulled away from his own siblings — decided not to let it happen again. Not out of pity. Not for applause. Just because he knew the pain too well to watch someone else go through it. That’s what Robert Carter did. At 29, he became a single father to five siblings. Not because it was easy. Not because he had it all figured out. But because they were about to be separated, and he couldn’t let that happen.

This isn’t a story about saving people. It’s not even about sacrifice. It’s about seeing yourself in someone else’s struggle and choosing to act. Robert didn’t come from privilege. He came from pain. But he chose to transform that pain into something powerful. And what he did — what he’s still doing — shows us what’s possible when we stop waiting for perfect conditions and start saying yes to what our hearts already know.

He Was Just a Kid Himself, Trying to Keep His Family Together

Robert Carter didn’t grow up in comfort. At 13, he was placed in foster care. His mother, struggling with alcoholism, was raising nine children on her own. And like a lot of eldest sons in chaotic homes, Robert became the parent by default. He stole food from corner stores — not because he was reckless, but because he wanted his younger siblings to eat. That kind of responsibility hardens you. Not because you want to be hard, but because you don’t have a choice. Love becomes survival.

By the time he was 16, Robert was living alone. He had no safety net. No bedtime. No one to ask how his day was. He was working three jobs — at Chipotle, at a ballpark, and at Wendy’s — just to stay afloat. Most teenagers were worried about school dances and weekend plans. Robert was worried about bills, food, and whether he’d come home to an empty house again. He said it was one of the most depressing times of his life. And when you hear that, you believe him. Because there’s no exaggeration in his voice — just truth.

But here’s the thing about Robert: he didn’t numb himself with the things that destroyed the people before him. He saw what alcohol and drugs did to his parents, and he chose a different path. That choice didn’t make things easier. But it gave him clarity. He wasn’t trying to be a hero. He was just trying not to repeat the same story. And when he aged out of foster care at 18, he didn’t run. He took custody of his younger sister. Three years later, he stepped in again and became guardian to his 13-year-old brother. That wasn’t an easy choice. But it was the right one. And that’s how Robert lives — not for comfort, but for what’s right.

These early years weren’t about learning how to survive — they were about learning what not to pass on. Robert could have walked away. He could have told himself he didn’t owe anyone anything. But instead, he paid attention. He learned. And even though he was never given a stable example of love, he became one. That’s how you change your story. Not by pretending the pain didn’t happen — but by refusing to let it define your future.

A Quiet Sentence Changed Everything

In 2018, Robert became a licensed foster parent. He had built a life for himself in Cincinnati, opened a hair salon, and decided to create space in his home for children who needed it. Not just because he could, but because he remembered being in their shoes. He knew what it felt like to live with strangers, to count the hours until you aged out, and to miss family members you couldn’t even call. He didn’t want to forget where he came from. He wanted to give what he never got.

He was fostering three young boys when he overheard a conversation that shifted everything. One of the boys mentioned his sisters — casually, as if he didn’t expect anything to come from it. But Robert heard that sentence like an alarm. Because he had once said those words too. He knew the ache behind them. The quiet heartbreak of knowing your siblings are out there but not here. That kind of loss isn’t loud — it’s constant. It hums underneath your day like background noise you can’t turn off.

That’s when Robert made a decision. He wasn’t just going to foster these boys — he was going to find their sisters and bring them back together. It wasn’t about being a savior. It wasn’t even about being a perfect parent. It was about undoing what the system so often allows: the breaking apart of families. Robert had lived it. And when he saw it starting again, he refused to stay quiet.

He didn’t know how it would go. He didn’t have a roadmap. But he had memory. He had instinct. And most of all, he had intention. So he started the process. He tracked down the girls. Worked with child services. Navigated the courts. And slowly, piece by piece, he began putting the family back together. Not because anyone told him to. Because he couldn’t imagine not doing it.

He Didn’t Just Adopt Them — He Showed Up For Them

Bringing five siblings into your home isn’t simple — especially as a single parent. It’s not just about housing or feeding them. It’s about showing up emotionally, consistently, even when you’re exhausted or unsure. Robert knew the weight of what he was choosing. But he also knew the weight of what they’d carry if no one stepped up. That made the choice clear, even when it was hard.

The legal process wasn’t quick. It required hearings, evaluations, and the approval of Magistrate Rogena Stargul, who watched how the kids interacted with Robert before making her decision. And what she saw wasn’t a staged performance. It was natural, honest connection. These children weren’t being rescued. They were being reunited. She saw that. And she approved the adoption.

Robert doesn’t act like he has it all figured out. He says openly that he learned how to parent by not having parents. Every day, he does the things he once wished someone had done for him. He gives hugs. He checks in. He says “I’m proud of you” — not just when they succeed, but because he knows how powerful those words are when you hear them from someone who means it. That’s not strategy. That’s awareness.

He also doesn’t separate family from daily life. His kids come to the salon. They see how he works, how he lives, and how he handles challenges. He’s not hiding real life from them. He’s showing them how to face it. And that’s what makes the difference. Not a perfect house. Not unlimited resources. But one adult who stays when it matters most.

Healing Happens When You’re Understood, Not Just Helped

One of the biggest reasons this family works is that Robert understands his kids’ pain without needing them to explain it. When they’re angry or withdrawn, he doesn’t take it personally. He knows what that looks like. He knows how fear shows up disguised as defiance. Because he’s felt it. That’s something you can’t fake. And it builds a kind of trust that isn’t always easy to earn — but once it’s there, it holds.

Mariana, one of the sisters, said it best: “It helps a lot… because some people don’t understand.” That line says everything. Robert doesn’t try to fix his kids. He sees them. And in a world that often talks over children, that kind of presence is rare. When you grow up thinking your feelings don’t matter, having someone notice them — without trying to control them — is healing.

Another layer to this story is Robert’s reconnection with his own parents. The same people whose struggles led to his time in foster care are now in his kids’ lives as grandparents. That wasn’t planned. It wasn’t a guarantee. But it shows something important — that people can grow, and relationships can evolve. The past doesn’t disappear. But it doesn’t have to define every chapter forward. And for these kids, seeing adults repair what was once broken teaches them that healing is possible — not overnight, but over time.

The love in Robert’s house isn’t about grand declarations. It’s in the daily actions, the routines, the way he makes space for his children’s emotions. That’s how they’re learning what real family feels like. Not because it’s always easy. But because it’s safe. And that kind of love doesn’t erase trauma — it helps carry it.

The Question Is No Longer “Why Me?” — It’s “What Now?”

Robert Carter didn’t grow up expecting to become a father of five. He didn’t have a detailed plan or perfect timing. What he had was a moment — a sentence overheard, a memory awakened — and a choice. And in that choice, he did something most people don’t: he said yes to what needed to be done, even when it felt bigger than him.

We can all learn from that. Not everyone is meant to adopt. Not everyone has to take on the same path. But everyone has a moment. A call to step in, to show up, to make something right that’s about to go wrong. And in those moments, the question isn’t “Am I ready?” It’s “Am I willing?” Because the truth is, readiness is rare. But willingness? That’s where change starts.

There are nearly 400,000 children in foster care in the U.S. today. Most aren’t looking for miracles. They’re looking for consistency. For someone who doesn’t give up when things get hard. For someone who sees them — not as a case file, but as a human being. Robert became that person. Not because he was perfect, but because he refused to ignore what he knew to be true.

So ask yourself: what is your yes? What moment have you been waiting to answer? You don’t need a perfect plan to make a difference. You just need the courage to move when the moment calls. That’s what Robert did. And because of that, five siblings are growing up together — not in silence, not in separation — but in a home where love isn’t lost. It’s lived.