I discovered I had brothers 9 years ago when I met my biological father. Three days after meeting them, our father asked them to live with me while he worked abroad. Our first night together was with 6 and 7-year-olds. I was 19. Because I only met them three days before I became responsible for them, my love for them is more like a parent than a sister.This is Quinten. He moved in with me at 7. Quinten was born with a rare Ring 9 Chromosome abnormality that prevented him from walking, talking, or caring for himself.
However, he was the happiest kid. He laughed at everything. Music, water, snuggling, and twirling were his passions. He liked to be treated like a boy, not a fragile baby. He wasn’t sick or fragile, but we had to focus on common sense. Except for faking tears for snacks, he never cried.
Cameron followed Quinten everywhere. Cameron guarded Quinten despite being his younger brother. He defended him, told him his secrets, and comforted him when he was sick. I had to homeschool him in first grade because he was too worried about Quinten and couldn’t function in public school.
For Quinten’s birthday, I gave him white cake to avoid a mess, but he wanted chocolate! He reached across the table, grabbed the cake, and dug in! If you thought food was out of reach, Quinten would eat it as soon as you turned around.
I could no longer care for them emotionally or financially after almost 4 years. Although our father sent money, I had to work. Cameron was getting old enough to need his dad, and affordable daycare was impossible. I requested our father retrieve them from the US. I say goodbye at the airport. I sometimes think this is my last day.
Our father moved back to the US after 2 years abroad with the boys. I was thrilled. I visited them often because they were only 4 hours away. Their ages were 12 and 13. After some time, I noticed Quinten was pale and thin, and he was no longer happy.
I tried visiting more often, but the house was dirty, there was no food, and everyone was sad. After buying groceries and cleaning, it was back to normal the next time I came down. The boys had constant colds, but our father never took them to the doctor.
I noticed that Cameron, 14, was cooking, bathing, and diapering Quinten and himself after our father stopped taking care of them. Cameron was abused physically and emotionally by our father. After realizing this, I turned my father in for child abuse on December 17, 2012, one of my hardest decisions.
A worker interviewed Cameron at the boys’ schools. He told her his father was abusing him, he was left alone to care for Quinten all day, and there was little food. This worker promised them and me a home study at their home. I waited 3 weeks. 3 weeks I called Cameron’s phone to see if she was there. She never arrived. Cameron said he held Quinten every day and said, “Just be patient Bubby- Sissy is sending someone to save us.” They never came.
I wanted to drive down and get them, but every time I called DHS, they told me to be patient, that someone would be out soon, and that if I took the boys, I would be charged with kidnapping. This social worker had obviously decided that Christmas shopping was more important than getting my brothers out of this hell hole. Since I live out of state, it would be felony kidnapping, and the kids would return to our father.
Quinten got sick again around New Year’s Eve and wasn’t taken to the doctor. Our father bought Nyquil and Vick’s vapo rub and told Cameron to give it to him. Cameron called me on January 3rd, panicking, “Something is different—he’s not getting better.” Despite my efforts, he won’t eat or stop crying. “Bubby, I love you,” I said as he held the phone to Quinten’s ear. You better get better because I’m coming to town tomorrow to hug, squeeze, and take you home. Everything will be fine.” Cameron said he smiled and stopped crying at my voice. Cameron and I pleaded with our father to take Quinten to the hospital that night, but he didn’t. My husband and I planned to leave town around noon the next day, drive down, and call the police from the house, saying, “Either you guys take custody of the kids, or let us take them, but get them out of here.”
I told Cameron to hold Quinten, rock him, and run his hands through his hair because hugs and snuggles can help when medicine can’t. Due to pee staining, Cameron moved his mattress into the living room and placed it next to Quinten’s couch. Zooming in on the cardboard shows dried feces. The house was covered in human and animal waste.
Cameron woke up to find Quinten dead on January 4. Cameron woke up with a cold hand from sleeping. He ran for our father, who was always on the computer in his bedroom. Our father failed to revive Quinten with CPR. Paramedics found him dead for at least 3 hours. He died on this couch. Zooming in on the photo shows discoloration on the upholstery where he had peed. This couch was so soaked in urine that if you sat on it, your clothes would smell like urine even after washing. Recently, we learned that our father forced Cameron to change Quinten’s dead body’s diaper to hide his filth while they waited for paramedics.
I work around the clock for justice. Our father must be imprisoned. No matter how depressed you are, only a special monster can watch their child die. Unfortunately, no one reported the abuse, so our father may get away with it.
This is my first post, and I wanted to remind everyone to speak up if you think a child is being mistreated. Disability does not equal illness, as many people believe. You may be their only voice. Don’t worry about starting drama if their parent is a friend or family member. You may be the only thing preventing a boy from saying goodbye to his brother over a coffin.
I want people to remember him, though. Quinten Douglas Wood was my best experience. My world revolved around his smile. Please share this with your friends, upvote it, whatever—I don’t care about points or karma—I just want the world to remember a little boy everyone forgot.I love you, sweet boy, rest in peace.
