– This time, the happy ending looks like a permanent one: A Florida orphan who became an Internet sensation is being adopted by his longtime caseworker, reports ABC News. Davion Only first made a splash in 2013 when, as a 15-year-old, he made an emotional pitch for a family. After an overwhelming response, an Ohio family agreed to take him in as the first step toward adoption—until Davion got into a fight with one of the family's kids, explains the Tampa Bay Times. He returned to Florida's foster system, despondent, and eventually opened up to "Miss Connie," who had been his caseworker for more than a decade, though was no longer in that role. Fast-forward to the present, which finds Davion living with Connie Going, her two daughters and one son (the latter adopted), along with their four dogs and four cats. Davion's adoption is expected to be finalized next week. Family bliss? Nope, but she's fine with that. "I'm OK with messy and difficult," she tells the Tampa newspaper, which has a lengthy story on Davion's new home. "You just have to have your armor on all the time, but it's more than worth it. And every day things get a little bit better."

Expand this summary.
Davion Navar Henry Only is finally set to get the happy ending more than 100,000 children in U.S. foster care dream of. 
  
 Connie Going, his former caseworker, is in the process of finalizing his adoption and is expected to sign the papers Wednesday, according to a family spokesperson. Going has two biological daughters and an adopted son. 
  
 "Connie, Davion and their new family appreciate the outpouring of support and well wishes," the Going family said through the spokesperson. "Right now, they are taking some quiet as a family but look forward to sharing their story, knowing it will inspire and give hope to others. In the meantime, they encourage everyone to follow their hearts no matter how difficult it may seem and to 'be the change you wish to see in the world.'" 
  
 The world was introduced to Only in 2013. The then-15-year-old Florida orphan had been in foster care his entire life. On a Sunday, he'd decided to stand in front of St. Mark Missionary Baptist Church in St. Petersburg, Florida, and make a public plea for a family. That June, he'd searched his birth mother's name online and learned that she had a criminal background. He'd also found her obituary. She had died just a few weeks earlier. 
  
 He said then that he'd cried in the library, but had decided then and there that his family's history wouldn't define him. He decided to take matters into his own hands and seek out a lifelong family. 
  
 "I'll take anyone," Only told ABC News then. "Old or young, dad or mom, black, white, purple. I don't care. And I would be really appreciative. The best I could be. ... I'm praying and still hoping. I know God hasn't given up and I'm not either." 
  
 Click here for a resource guide on children in foster care. 
  
 The national response was overwhelming, with tens of thousands of calls made to adoption agencies seeking information on the teen. Requests poured in from across the country and around the world, including calls from Canada, India, Mexico, Australia, Great Britain and Iran. Agency workers called it "the Davion effect." 
  
 According to a 2013 report by the US Department of Health and Human Services, 101,737 children in foster care are waiting to be adopted. 
  
 "I just wanted to let people know that it's hard to be a foster kid," Only said previously. "People sometimes don't know how hard it is and how much we try to do good." 
  
 He told ABC News then that, despite his age, he still needed a parent. 
  
 "Just 'cause I'm not going to be a kid doesn't mean you're still not my parent," he said. "I'm still gonna be your child. I'm still gonna need you down the road." 
  
 In 2014, Only was removed from the home of a potential adoptive family. The 16-year-old had an altercation with a member of his prospective family, according to the Eckerd adoptive agency overseeing Only's adoption, after moving from Florida to Ohio to be with the prospective family for a 90-day trial period. The move was the first step of the adoptive process. 
  
 Going, who'd straightened Only's tie that day in church, told ABC News previously that he was an inspiration to other children awaiting families. 
  
 "He has such a special spirit and he hasn't given up hope," she said. "I think it's a human's right to be loved and wanted. ... When you don't feel that you are, it's hard to succeed in life." ||||| ST. PETERSBURG 
  
 For a long time after he was sent back to Florida, Davion didn't want to talk. 
  
 Not to the counselors the agency sent to console him; not to the guys from his old group home or the teachers at his new high school. Not to the foster parents who took him in; he knew they didn't plan to keep him. Or to the church people he had stood before when he asked someone — anyone — to adopt him. 
  
 Especially not to the reporters from around the world who wanted to know: What went wrong? 
  
 Davion Navar Henry Only hadn't spoken to anyone, really, since last spring, when he had gone to Ohio to live with a minister who said he wanted to make him part of his family. When Davion got into a fight with one of the minister's kids, the family changed their minds — and flew Davion back to Florida. 
  
 He returned to the state system, where he had lived with strangers his whole life. 
  
 All summer, he slumped on the floor in a bedroom that wasn't really his, playing Madden football on a hand-held PlayStation, trying to pretend he didn't really need anyone anyway. 
  
 He was 16. Too old, he thought, for anyone to want him. Too old, he kept telling himself, to care. 
  
 Then, on a sticky evening in late July — after being shuffled between four homes and four schools in a year — Davion finally needed to talk. On a phone the foster agency had given him, he dialed the only number he knew by heart, of the only adult who was a constant in his life, the woman who had been his caseworker since he was 7. 
  
 The only person he thought might still care. 
  
 "Hey . . . Miss Connie . . . it's me," he stammered softly. "Do you remember what I asked you before? Well . . ." 
  
 • • • 
  
 Davion had been born while his mom was in jail. He had grown up in foster care, bounced through so many homes he had lost count. A tall, big boy with a deep, quiet voice, he had always wanted to play football. But he had never had anyone to drive him to practice. He had always wanted parents. But no one had ever wanted him. 
  
 A couple of years ago, after his freshman year of high school, Davion unfolded his birth certificate and logged onto a computer at the local library. He typed his mother's name and found arrest reports for cocaine — then her obituary. She had died a few weeks earlier. She would never come get him. 
  
 So he set out on a quest to find himself a family. 
  
 In September 2013, he donned a donated suit, borrowed a Bible from the boys' home, and asked his caseworker, Miss Connie, to drive him to a St. Petersburg church. He stood on the altar, sweating, and begged someone to adopt him. 
  
 "I'll take anyone," he said. "Old or young, dad or mom, black, white, purple." 
  
 His story, first told in the Tampa Bay Times, was picked up by media across the nation, in England, Australia and Japan. Bloggers and celebrities shared his plea and posted his picture. Barbara Walters interviewed him on The View. 
  
 More than 10,000 people contacted the foster agency, Eckerd, to adopt him. More than 60 volunteers manned phones to field the calls. Well-wishers sent watches and gift cards, money for a college fund. An official with Florida's Department of Children and Families praised "the Davion effect" for raising awareness about other teens who need homes. "The number of inquiries has increased almost three-fold," Eckerd spokeswoman Terri Durdaller said. "Davion is a hero." 
  
 But six months after he became the face of adoption, Davion was still floundering in foster care. 
  
 He met with relatives he didn't know he had, and four families who had seen his story. Then he moved to Ohio to live with the minister and his wife, who already had three kids. "I got baptized!" Davion wrote on his new Facebook page. 
  
 Three months later he was back, ashamed and alone. 
  
 • • • 
  
 For a long time after Davion was sent back to Florida, Connie Going had wanted to talk. 
  
 To the boy she had first met at a picnic when he barely reached her hip; to the teenager who threw tirades and chairs, then threw his arms around her; to the frightened young man she had driven to church that morning, who opened himself up only to be rejected again. 
  
 Especially to the reporters from around the world, asking: "What went wrong?" Connie wanted to answer them. "That boy spent his whole life in the system, that's what went wrong." 
  
 She felt like she had let him down, all those years her agency couldn't find him a home. 
  
 So many times after that fiasco in Ohio, she had started to dial Davion's number, just to tell him she was still there for him. But she hadn't wanted to make him feel like he had to explain. 
  
 When her phone rang that hot night in July, Connie was in a hospital with her dad, who was dying. She reached down to turn off her cell, then saw the number. 
  
 "Davion?" she cried. 
  
 • • • 
  
 Connie Bell Going never meant to be a social worker. Or a mom. She had grown up in a Navy family, moving between bases. A tall, blond woman with a ready smile and loud voice, she had always loved the flute and planned to play professionally. 
  
 After earning a music degree at the University of South Florida, she taught there for a few years, while subbing with the Florida Orchestra. She was getting ready to go to New York to further her studies and audition when a car accident shattered her jaw — and silenced her flute. 
  
 So Connie found a job driving mentally ill patients around in a van, and — for the first time — felt like she was really helping people. "I sort of fell into social work," said Connie, 52. She became a caseworker and eventually joined Eckerd, where she met a shy boy named Davion, who always wanted to hug her. 
  
 She took him out for pizza, for pancakes and hot dogs. They went bowling and to the beach. She found him a mentor, a college student to throw him a football. She followed him through foster homes and therapy sessions, to group homes and adoption events. She made sure he was featured in the Heart Gallery, which displays portraits of children needing homes. She arranged for him to speak at that church. 
  
 And every year, for a decade, Davion asked her at least once, "Why don't you just adopt me, Miss Connie?" 
  
 "Because you deserve more," she kept saying. "You need a dad." 
  
 Since she'd met Davion, her two daughters had grown into teenagers, her 16-year marriage had ended. She had rehabbed an old house, earned her motorcycle license and helped more than 1,000 kids get adopted. She even adopted one herself — 10-year-old Taylor, Davion's best friend from the group home, who had suffered through two failed matches. 
  
 Connie brought Davion home with her some weekends, to watch football and hang out with Taylor. But she couldn't let him stay. She was sorry. Her house was too small, her own girls needed her, Taylor was bashing doors. She kept promising Davion, "We'll find you your own family." 
  
 When Davion's story went viral, Connie sat beside him during his first plane ride — and his first interview on national TV in New York. When the attention got overwhelming, and the guys in the group home gave him a hard time, Connie let him sleep over. And when Davion left for Ohio, Connie helped him pack a small bag — and prayed for him every night. 
  
 After she heard he had been sent back, she kept worrying about him, thinking about how much he must be hurting. How would that feel, to be 16 and have no one? 
  
 • • • 
  
 She stepped into the hospital hall to take his call. "Davion?" she asked again. 
  
 For a second, there was silence. She heard his heavy breathing, felt his hesitation. When he spoke again, his voice was so soft she could barely make out the words. He didn't say hello, or ask how she was. He just let his hope tumble out. 
  
 "Do you remember what I asked you before?" he repeated. "I mean about . . ." Before she could answer, he took a deep breath and continued. "Well, how do you feel about adopting me now?" 
  
 This time, Connie answered right away. She was no longer his caseworker; she was working for the Heart Gallery. She had been waiting for Davion to ask again. If he still wanted her, she was ready for him now. She had talked to her kids, and they all agreed: We need to do this. Of course, her friends thought she was crazy. Of course, she knew it would be hard. But how could she not take him in? 
  
 Davion couldn't believe Connie agreed. Are you sure? He kept pressing. Do you mean it? Then he started asking, when? 
  
 In August, he started spending weekends with Connie and her girls, Sydney, 21, Carley, 17, and with his buddy Taylor, who is now 14. They played paintball and PlayStation, grilled burgers and took their four dogs for walks. Davion had never had a dog. 
  
 In December, Connie called an adoption agency, hired a lawyer and rented a new house with four bedrooms and a pool. When she passed the home study, Davion moved in for good. He brought a garbage bag stuffed with T-shirts, a backpack crammed with video games. And the Bible they'd given him at his group home. 
  
 Connie gave him the big bedroom with sliding glass doors to the patio. She helped him paint the walls the color of clay, nail anime posters above the dresser; she bought him a queen-sized bed. Davion had never had his own room, or been able to hang pictures. He had always curled into a single bed. 
  
 On the hallway between his door and Taylor's, Connie framed their portraits from the Heart Gallery, from when they were 9. Neither boy has any baby pictures. 
  
 "I guess I always thought of you as my mom," Davion told her just before Christmas. "Only now I get to call you that for real, right?" 
  
 In February, they celebrated their birthdays — they share she same date. Connie took Davion to get his driving permit. Davion took her to get a pedicure. That night, over cake, with Davion's three new siblings by his side, they signed the court papers. 
  
 On April 22, everything will be official. Eckerd didn't want to comment on what happened in Davion's case. Durdaller, the spokeswoman, said: "We are truly thrilled that Davion has been united with his forever family." 
  
 People from around the world offered to adopt Davion, but the family he really wanted had been with him all along. 
  
 • • • 
  
 Since he came to live with Connie, Davion hasn't stopped talking. 
  
 To his new sisters who keep trying to mother him, to his new brother who has always been his best friend, to the four dogs and four cats who tumble through the full house. 
  
 Especially after dinner, when everyone else is trying to watch The Walking Dead. 
  
 "Having Davion around means everything's a lot louder. All the time," Carley said one recent afternoon, while her brothers were wrestling across the living room. 
  
 "And I always thought he was a quiet kid," Connie laughed. "In a two-hour period today, he called, 'Mom!' 45 times." 
  
 He tests her patience, she admits. There has been no happily ever after. 
  
 All the kids squabble, punches are thrown, furniture gets flipped. Twice a week, a family therapist they call Mr. Ed comes to the house and meets with them all together, then individually. "I'm okay with messy and difficult," Connie said. "You just have to have your armor on all the time, but it's more than worth it. And every day things get a little bit better." 
  
 Davion's compassion, she said, astounds her. As bruised as he has been, he always worries about others. He asks everyone, all the time, if they're okay — even the dogs. 
  
 Instead of starting at another high school, Davion is taking classes online this semester, earning a 3.1 GPA. He is working out on the punching bag Connie hung by the pool. In the fall, he hopes to get a job, start boxing and go back to school. He is enjoying having sisters who care, a brother to beat at Grand Theft Auto, a mom who does his laundry, makes him hash browns and helps him shave his sideburns. 
  
 Still, sometimes things get overwhelming. Sometimes, for no reason, he just has to scream. Or cocoon himself in his room, draw the blinds and slay virtual monsters. He always keeps the lights on, a Nerf gun by his pillow. He locks his door. 
  
 Late at night, after everyone else has gone to sleep, he turns off the video games and lets Connie in. 
  
 She slides onto the edge of his bed, on top of the cobalt covers, close enough for her foot to bump his. She usually doesn't say much. She just listens. 
  
 While Davion talks and talks and talks . . . |||||
– Den här gången ser det lyckliga slutet ut som ett permanent sådant: En föräldralös Florida som blev en Internetsensation blir adopterad av sin mångåriga caseworker, rapporterar ABC News. Davion gjorde först ett plask 2013 då han som 15-åring gjorde en känslomässig pitch för en familj. Efter ett överväldigande svar gick en Ohiofamilj med på att ta in honom som första steg mot adoption – tills Davion hamnade i bråk med en av familjens barn, förklarar Tampa Bay Times. Han återvände till Floridas fostersystem, förtvivlad, och öppnade sig så småningom för "Miss Connie", som hade varit hans handläggare i mer än ett decennium, fastän inte längre var i den rollen. Snabbforward till samtiden, som finner Davion bo med Connie Going, hennes två döttrar och en son (den senare adopterade), tillsammans med deras fyra hundar och fyra katter. Davions adoption förväntas vara klar nästa vecka. Familjelycka? Nej, men hon är okej med det. "Jag är okej med stökigt och svårt", berättar hon för tidningen Tampa, som har en lång historia om Davions nya hem. "Du behöver bara ha din rustning på hela tiden, men det är mer än värt det. Och för varje dag blir det lite bättre." Utöka denna sammanfattning.
“This time, the happy ending looks like a permanent one: An orphan Florida that became an Internet sensation is adopted by its long-standing caseworker,” reports ABC News. Davion first made a splash in 2013 when, as a 15-year-old, he made an emotional pitch for a family. After an overwhelming response, an Ohio family agreed to bring him in as the first step towards adoption—until Davion got into a fight with one of the family's children, the Tampa Bay Times explains. He returned to Florida's foster system, desperate, and eventually opened up to "Miss Connie", who had been his case officer for more than a decade, although no longer in that role. Fast forward to the present, finding Davion living with Connie Going, her two daughters and a son (the latter adopted), along with their four dogs and four cats. Davion's adoption is expected to be completed next week. Family happiness? No, but she's okay with it. "I'm okay with messy and difficult," she tells Tampa magazine, which has a long history of Davion's new home. "You just have to wear your armor all the time, but it's more than worth it. And every day it gets a little better." Extend this summary.
Davion Navar Henry Only är äntligen inställd på att få det lyckliga slutet mer än 100 000 barn i USA fosterhem dröm om. Connie Going, hans tidigare handläggare, håller på att slutföra sin adoption och förväntas skriva under tidningarna onsdag, enligt en familjetalesman. Going har två biologiska döttrar och en adoptivson. "Connie, Davion och deras nya familj uppskattar utflödet av stöd och välönskningar", sade familjen Going genom talespersonen. "Just nu tar de lite lugn som en familj men ser fram emot att dela med sig av sin historia, eftersom de vet att den kommer att inspirera och ge hopp till andra. Under tiden uppmuntrar de alla att följa sina hjärtan hur svårt det än kan verka och att 'vara den förändring ni vill se i världen'. Världen introducerades till Endast 2013. Den då 15-åriga föräldralösa Florida hade varit i fosterhem hela sitt liv. På en söndag hade han beslutat att stå framför St Mark Missionary Baptist Church i St Petersburg, Florida, och framföra en offentlig vädjan om en familj. Den juni hade han sökt igenom sin biologiska mors namn på nätet och fått veta att hon hade en kriminell bakgrund. Han hade också hittat hennes dödsruna. Hon hade dött bara några veckor tidigare. Han sa då att han hade gråtit i biblioteket, men hade bestämt då och där att hans familjs historia inte skulle definiera honom. Han bestämde sig för att ta saken i egna händer och söka upp en livslång familj. "Jag tar vem som helst", sa bara ABC News då. "Gammal eller ung, pappa eller mamma, svart, vit, lila. Jag bryr mig inte. Och jag skulle verkligen uppskatta det. Det bästa jag kunde vara. ... Jag ber och hoppas fortfarande. Jag vet att Gud inte har gett upp och det är inte jag heller." Klicka här för en resursguide om barn i fosterhem. Det nationella gensvaret var överväldigande, med tiotusentals uppmaningar till adoptionsbyråer att söka information om tonåringen. Begäran strömmade in från hela landet och runt om i världen, inklusive samtal från Kanada, Indien, Mexiko, Australien, Storbritannien och Iran. Arbetstagarna kallade det Davioneffekten. Enligt en rapport från 2013 från USA:s hälso- och sjukvårdsdepartement väntar 101.737 barn i fosterhem på att bli adopterade. "Jag ville bara låta folk veta att det är svårt att vara fosterbarn", sade bara tidigare. "Folk vet ibland inte hur svårt det är och hur mycket vi försöker göra gott." Han berättade för ABC News då att han, trots sin ålder, fortfarande behövde en förälder. "Bara för att jag inte ska bli barn betyder det inte att du fortfarande inte är min förälder", sa han. "Jag ska fortfarande vara ditt barn. Jag kommer fortfarande att behöva dig längre fram." 2014 avlägsnades Only från en potentiell adoptivfamiljs hem. 16-åringen hade ett gräl med en medlem av sin blivande familj, enligt Eckerd adoptivbyrå som övervakade Only's adoption, efter att ha flyttat från Florida till Ohio för att vara med den blivande familjen under en 90-dagars försöksperiod. Flytten var det första steget i adoptivprocessen. Going, som hade rätat ut Only's slips den dagen i kyrkan, berättade för ABC News tidigare att han var en inspiration för andra barn som väntade på familjer. "Han har en så speciell anda och han har inte gett upp hoppet", sade hon. "Jag tycker att det är en människas rätt att vara älskad och eftersökt. ... När man inte känner att man är det är det svårt att lyckas i livet." ST. PETERSBURG Under en lång tid efter att han skickades tillbaka till Florida ville Davion inte prata. Inte till rådgivarna som byrån skickade för att trösta honom; inte till killarna från hans gamla grupphem eller lärarna på hans nya gymnasium. Inte till fosterföräldrarna som tog hand om honom; han visste att de inte planerade att behålla honom. Eller till kyrkofolket hade han stått förut, då han bad någon — vem som helst — att adoptera honom. Särskilt inte till reportrar från hela världen som ville veta: Vad gick fel? Davion Navar Henry Only hade inte talat med någon, egentligen, sedan förra våren, då han hade rest till Ohio för att bo hos en minister, som sade sig vilja göra honom till en del av sin familj. När Davion hamnade i slagsmål med en av ministerns ungar, ändrade familjen sig — och flög Davion tillbaka till Florida. Han återvände till statsväsendet, där han hade bott med främlingar hela sitt liv. Hela sommaren låg han på golvet i ett sovrum som egentligen inte var hans, och spelade Madden football på en handhållen PlayStation, och försökte låtsas att han inte behövde någon ändå. Han var 16. För gammal för att någon skulle vilja ha honom. För gammal, fortsatte han att intala sig själv, att bry sig. Sedan, en klibbig kväll i slutet av juli — efter att ha blivit omskakad mellan fyra hem och fyra skolor på ett år — behövde Davion till slut tala. På en telefon hade fosterbyrån gett honom, han slog det enda numret han kände utantill, av den enda vuxna som var en konstant i hans liv, kvinnan som hade varit hans handläggare sedan han var 7. Den enda han trodde skulle bry sig. "Hallå. . . Miss Connie. . . Det är jag", stammade han mjukt. »Minns du vad jag frågade dig förut? Tja. . ." Davion hade fötts medan hans mamma satt i fängelse. Han hade vuxit upp i fosterhem, studsat genom så många hem att han hade tappat räkningen. En lång, stor pojke med djup, tyst röst, han hade alltid velat spela fotboll. Men han hade aldrig haft någon att driva honom till träning. Han hade alltid velat ha föräldrar. Men ingen hade någonsin velat ha honom. För några år sedan, efter första året i high school, tog Davion fram sin födelseattest och loggade in på en dator på biblioteket. Han skrev sin mors namn och hittade rapporter om gripande av kokain, sedan hennes dödsruna. Hon hade dött några veckor tidigare. Hon skulle aldrig hämta honom. Så han gav sig ut på ett försök att hitta en familj. I september 2013 tog han på sig en donerad kostym, lånade en bibel från pojkhemmet, och bad sin handläggare, miss Connie, att köra honom till en Sankt Petersburg-kyrka. Han stod på altaret och svettades och bad någon att adoptera honom. »Jag tar vem som helst», sade han. "Gammal eller ung, pappa eller mamma, svart, vit, lila." Hans historia, som först berättades i Tampa Bay Times, plockades upp av media över hela landet, i England, Australien och Japan. Bloggare och kändisar delade hans vädjan och postade hans bild. Barbara Walters intervjuade honom på The View. Mer än 10 000 personer kontaktade fosterbyrån, Eckerd, för att adoptera honom. Mer än 60 frivilliga bemannade telefoner för att ringa. Välönskningar skickade klockor och presentkort, pengar till en collegefond. En tjänsteman med Floridas Department of Children and Families berömde "the Davion effect" för att ha höjt medvetenheten om andra tonåringar som behöver hem. "Antalet förfrågningar har ökat nästan trefaldigt", sade Eckerd taleskvinna Terri Durdaller. "Davion är en hjälte." Men ett halvår efter att han blev adoptionsansikte fladdrade Davion fortfarande i fosterhem. Han träffade släktingar han inte visste att han hade, och fyra familjer som hade sett hans historia. Därefter flyttade han till Ohio för att bo hos prästen och hans fru, som redan hade tre barn. "Jag blev döpt!" Davion skrev på sin nya Facebook-sida. Tre månader senare var han tillbaka, skamsen och ensam. • • • Under en lång tid efter att Davion skickats tillbaka till Florida hade Connie Going velat prata. Till pojken hade hon först träffat på en picknick, då han knappt nådde hennes höft; till tonåringen, som kastade tirader och stolar, kastade sedan armarna om henne; till den skrämda unge mannen hade hon kört till kyrkan den morgonen, som öppnade sig bara för att bli avvisad igen. Särskilt till reportrarna från hela världen och frågade: "Vad gick fel?" Connie ville svara på dem. "Pojken tillbringade hela sitt liv i systemet, det var det som gick fel." Hon kände att hon hade svikit honom, alla dessa år kunde hennes byrå inte hitta ett hem åt honom. Så många gånger efter fiaskot i Ohio hade hon börjat ringa Davions nummer, bara för att säga att hon fortfarande fanns där för honom. Men hon hade inte velat få honom att känna sig tvungen att förklara. När hennes telefon ringde den heta kvällen i juli låg Connie på sjukhus med sin pappa, som var döende. Hon sträckte sig ner för att stänga av sin cell och såg sedan numret. "Davion?" grät hon. • • Connie Bell Going menade aldrig att vara socialarbetare. Eller en mamma. Hon hade vuxit upp i en marinfamilj och flyttat mellan baser. En lång, blond kvinna med ett klart leende och hög röst, hon hade alltid älskat flöjten och planerade att spela professionellt. Efter att ha avlagt musikexamen vid University of South Florida undervisade hon där i några år, samtidigt som hon umgicks med Florida Orchestra. Hon gjorde sig redo att åka till New York för att fortsätta sina studier och provspela, när en bilolycka krossade hennes käke — och tystade hennes flöjt. Connie fick därför ett arbete med att köra psykiskt sjuka patienter omkring i en skåpbil, och — för första gången — kändes det som om hon verkligen hjälpte människor. "Jag liksom föll i socialt arbete", sade Connie, 52. Hon blev kasearbetare och slöt sig så småningom till Eckerd, där hon träffade en blyg pojke vid namn Davion, som alltid velat krama henne. Hon bjöd honom på pizza, pannkakor och varmkorv. De bowlade och gick till stranden. Hon hittade en mentor, en collegestudent som gav honom en fotboll. Hon följde honom genom fosterhem och terapisessioner, för att gruppera hem och adoptionsevenemang. Hon såg till att han fanns med i Hjärtgalleriet, som visar porträtt av barn som behöver hem. Hon ordnade så att han kunde tala i den kyrkan. Och varje år, i ett decennium, frågade Davion henne åtminstone en gång: "Varför adopterar du mig inte bara, miss Connie?" "För att du förtjänar mer", sa hon. "Du behöver en pappa." Sedan hon hade träffat Davion hade hennes två döttrar vuxit till tonåringar, hennes 16-åriga äktenskap hade tagit slut. Hon hade rehabbäddat ett gammalt hus, fått motorcykellicens och hjälpt mer än 1000 barn att bli adopterade. Hon adopterade till och med en själv — 10-årige Taylor, Davions bästa vän från grupphemmet, som hade lidit genom två misslyckade matcher. Connie tog hem Davion med sig några helger, för att titta på fotboll och umgås med Taylor. Men hon kunde inte låta honom stanna. Hon var ledsen. Hennes hus var för litet, hennes egna flickor behövde henne, Taylor slog in dörrar. Hon lovade Davion: "Vi hittar din egen familj." När Davions berättelse blev viral satt Connie bredvid honom under sin första flygtur — och sin första intervju i nationell TV i New York. När uppmärksamheten blev överväldigande, och killarna i grupphemmet gav honom svårt, lät Connie honom sova över. Och när Davion for till Ohio, hjälpte Connie honom att packa en liten väska — och bad för honom varje kväll. Sedan hon fått höra att han hade blivit skickad tillbaka, fortsatte hon att oroa sig för honom, i det hon tänkte på hur mycket han måste ha ont. Hur skulle det kännas, att vara 16 och inte ha någon? • • • Hon gick in i sjukhussalen för att ta emot hans samtal. "Davion?" frågade hon igen. För en sekund rådde tystnad. Hon hörde hans tunga andning, kände hans tvekan. När han talade igen, var hans röst så mjuk att hon knappt kunde förstå orden. Han hälsade inte och frågade inte hur hon mådde. Han lät sitt hopp falla ut. »Minns du vad jag frågade dig förut?» upprepade han. "Jag menar ungefär . . ." Innan hon hann svara, tog han ett djupt andetag och fortsatte. »Nå, vad tycker du om att adoptera mig nu?» Den här gången svarade Connie genast. Hon var inte längre hans handläggare; hon arbetade för Hjärtgalleriet. Hon hade väntat på att Davion skulle fråga igen. Om han fortfarande ville ha henne, var hon redo för honom nu. Hon hade pratat med sina barn, och alla kom överens om att vi måste göra det här. Naturligtvis tyckte hennes vänner att hon var galen. Naturligtvis visste hon att det skulle bli svårt. Men hur kunde hon inte ta in honom? Davion kunde inte tro att Connie gick med på det. Är du säker? Han fortsatte trycka. Menar du det? Sen började han fråga, när? I augusti började han tillbringa helger med Connie och hennes flickor, Sydney, 21, Carley, 17, och med sin kompis Taylor, som nu är 14. De spelade paintball och PlayStation, grillade hamburgare och tog sina fyra hundar på promenader. Davion hade aldrig haft någon hund. I december ringde Connie en adoptionsbyrå, anställde en advokat och hyrde ett nytt hus med fyra sovrum och en pool. När hon klarade hemstudiet flyttade Davion in för gott. Han tog med sig en sopsäck fylld med T-shirts, en ryggsäck fullproppad med TV-spel. Och Bibeln de hade gett honom på hans grupphem. Connie gav honom det stora sovrummet med skjutbara glasdörrar till uteplatsen. Hon hjälpte honom att måla väggarna i lerans färg, spika animeaffischer ovanför byrån; hon köpte honom en drottningstor säng. Davion hade aldrig haft ett eget rum, eller kunnat hänga bilder. Han hade alltid krullat ihop sig till en enkelsäng. I korridoren mellan hans dörr och Taylors ramade Connie in sina porträtt från Heart Gallery, från när de var nio. Ingen av pojkarna har några babybilder. »Jag antar, att jag alltid tänkte på dig som min mamma», sade Davion till henne strax före jul. "Men nu får jag kalla dig det på riktigt, va?" I februari firade de sina födelsedagar — de delar samma datum med henne. Connie tog Davion för att få sitt körkort. Davion tog henne för att skaffa en pedikyr. Den kvällen, över tårtan, med Davions tre nya syskon vid sin sida, skrev de under rättegångspapperen. Den 22 april blir allt officiellt. Eckerd ville inte kommentera vad som hände i Davions fall. Durdaller, talekvinnan, sade: "Vi är verkligen hänförda över att Davion har varit förenad med sin eviga familj." Folk från hela världen erbjöd sig att adoptera Davion, men familjen han verkligen ville ha hade varit med honom hela tiden. • • Sedan han kom för att bo hos Connie har Davion inte slutat prata. Till sina nya systrar som hela tiden försöker att moderera honom, till sin nya bror som alltid varit hans bästa vän, till de fyra hundar och fyra katter som tumlar genom hela huset. Speciellt efter middagen, när alla andra försöker se The Walking Dead. "Att ha Davion här betyder att allt är mycket högre. Hela tiden", sade Carley en eftermiddag, medan hennes bröder brottades över vardagsrummet. "Och jag har alltid trott att han var ett tyst barn," skrattade Connie. "Om två timmar i dag ringde han: 'Mamma!' 45 gånger." Han testar hennes tålamod, erkänner hon. Det har inte funnits något lyckligt i alla sina dagar. Alla barnen bråkar, slag kastas, möblerna vänds. Två gånger i veckan kommer en familjeterapeut som de kallar Mr Ed till huset och träffar dem alla tillsammans, sedan individuellt. "Jag är okej med stökigt och svårt", sa Connie. "Du behöver bara ha din rustning på hela tiden, men det är mer än värt det. Och för varje dag blir det lite bättre." Davions medlidande, sade hon, förbluffar henne. Hur skadad han än har varit, oroar han sig alltid för andra. Han frågar alla, hela tiden, om de är okej — till och med hundarna. Istället för att börja på ett annat gymnasium, Davion går kurser online denna termin, tjänar en 3,1 GPA. Han tränar på boxningssäcken Connie hängde vid poolen. Till hösten hoppas han få jobb, börja boxas och gå tillbaka till skolan. Han njuter av att ha systrar som bryr sig, en bror att slå på Grand Theft Auto, en mamma som sköter sin tvätt, gör honom haschbrun och hjälper honom att raka sina polisonger. Men ibland blir saker och ting överväldigande. Ibland, utan anledning, måste han skrika. Eller koka sig i sitt rum, dra persienner och döda virtuella monster. Han har alltid lamporna tända, en Nerf pistol vid sin kudde. Han låser dörren. Sent på natten, efter att alla andra har somnat, stänger han av TV-spelen och släpper in Connie. Hon glider upp på kanten av hans säng, ovanpå koboltöverdragen, tillräckligt nära för att hennes fot ska stöta hans. Hon brukar inte säga så mycket. Hon lyssnar bara. Medan Davion pratar och pratar och pratar. . . Â°°
Davion Navar Henry Only is finally set to have the happy ending more than 100,000 children in U.S. foster homes dreamt of. Connie Going, his former case officer, is completing his adoption and is expected to sign the papers Wednesday, according to a family spokesman. Going has two biological daughters and an adopted son. "Connie, Davion and their new family appreciate the outflow of support and well-wish," said the Going family through the spokesperson. "Right now they take a bit of calm as a family but look forward to sharing their story, because they know it will inspire and give hope to others. Meanwhile, they all encourage to follow their hearts however difficult it may seem and to 'be the change you want to see in the world'. The world was introduced to Only 2013. The then 15-year-old orphan Florida had been in foster care all his life. On a Sunday, he had decided to stand in front of St Mark's Missionary Baptist Church in St Petersburg, Florida, and make a public appeal for a family. By June, he had searched his biological mother's name online and learned that she had a criminal background. He had also found her obituary. She had died only a few weeks earlier. He then said that he had cried in the library, but had decided from time to time that his family's history would not define him. He decided to take matters into his own hands and seek out a lifelong family. "I'll take anyone," said ABC News then. "Old or young, father or mother, black, white, purple. I don't care. And I would really appreciate it. Best I could be. ... I still pray and hope. I know that God has not given up and neither am I." Click here for a resource guide on children in foster care. The national response was overwhelming, with tens of thousands of calls to adoption agencies to seek information about the teenager. The request flowed in from all over the country and around the world, including calls from Canada, India, Mexico, Australia, the United Kingdom and Iran. The workers called it the Davion effect. According to a 2013 report from the U.S. Department of Health, 101,737 children in foster homes are waiting to be adopted. "I just wanted to let people know it's hard to be foster children," said only earlier. "People sometimes don't know how hard it is and how much we try to do good." He told ABC News then that, despite his age, he still needed a parent. "Just because I'm not gonna be a child doesn't mean you're still not my parent," he said. "I'll still be your child. I'm still going to need you later." In 2014, Only was removed from the home of a potential adoptive family. The 16-year-old had an argument with a member of his future family, according to Eckerd adoptive agency overseeing Only's adoption, after moving from Florida to Ohio to be with the future family for a 90-day trial period. The move was the first step in the adoption process. Going, who had straightened out Only's tie that day in church, told ABC News earlier that he was an inspiration to other children waiting for families. "He has such a special spirit and he has not given up hope," she said. "I think it is a person's right to be loved and sought after. ... When you don't feel like you are, it's hard to succeed in life." ST. PETERSBURG For a long time after he was sent back to Florida, Davion did not want to talk. Not to the counselors the agency sent to comfort him; not to the guys from his old group home or the teachers at his new high school. Not to the foster parents who took care of him; he knew they were not planning to keep him. Or to the church people he had stood before when he asked someone — anyone — to adopt him. Especially to reporters from all over the world who wanted to know: What went wrong? Davion Navar Henry Only had not spoken to anyone, really, since last spring, when he had gone to Ohio to live with a minister, who said he wanted to make him part of his family. When Davion got into a fight with one of the minister's kids, the family changed their minds — and flew Davion back to Florida. He returned to the state, where he had lived with strangers all his life. All summer he lay on the floor of a bedroom that wasn't really his, playing Madden football on a handheld PlayStation, trying to pretend he didn't need anyone anyway. He was 16. Too old for someone to want him. Too old, he kept telling himself, caring. Then, a sticky evening at the end of July — after being shaken between four homes and four schools in one year — Davion finally needed to speak. On a phone the foster firm had given him, he dialed the only number he knew by heart, of the only adult who was a constant in his life, the woman who had been his handler since he was 7. The only one he thought would care. "Hello. . . . . . . Miss Connie. . . . . . . It's me," he stammered softly. "Do you remember what I asked you before? Well. . . . "I'm sorry. Davion had been born while his mother was in prison. He had grown up in foster care, bounced through so many homes that he had lost count. A tall, big boy with a deep, quiet voice, he had always wanted to play football. But he had never had anyone to drive him to training. He'd always wanted parents. But no one would have ever wanted him. A few years ago, after his first year in high school, Davion produced his birth certificate and logged on to a computer at the library. He wrote his mother's name and found reports of arrest of cocaine, then her obituary. She had died a few weeks earlier. She'd never pick him up. So he went out on an attempt to find a family. In September 2013, he took on a donated suit, borrowed a Bible from the boys' home, and asked his case officer, Miss Connie, to drive him to a St. Petersburg church. He stood on the altar and sweated and asked someone to adopt him. "I'll take anyone," he said. "Old or young, father or mother, black, white, purple." His story, first told in the Tampa Bay Times, was picked up by media across the country, in England, Australia, and Japan. Bloggers and celebrities shared his plea and posted his picture. Barbara Walters interviewed him on The View. More than 10,000 people contacted the foster firm, Eckerd, to adopt him. More than 60 volunteer manned phones to call. Well wishes sent watches and gift cards, money for a college fund. An official with the Florida Department of Children and Families praised "the Davion effect" for raising awareness of other teenagers who need home. "The number of inquiries has increased nearly threefold," Eckerd spokeswoman Terri Durdaller said. "Davion is a hero." But six months after he became an adoption face, Davion still fluttered in foster care. He met relatives he did not know he had, and four families who had seen his history. Then he moved to Ohio to live with the priest and his wife, who already had three children. "I got baptized!" Davion signed his new Facebook page. Three months later, he was back, ashamed and alone. • • For a long time after Davion was sent back to Florida, Connie Going had wanted to talk. To the boy she had first met at a picnic, when he barely reached her hip; to the teenager, who threw tirads and chairs, then threw her arms around; to the frightened young man she had driven to church that morning, who opened only to be rejected again. Especially to the reporters from all over the world and asked, "What went wrong?" Connie wanted to answer them. "The boy spent his whole life in the system, that's what went wrong." She felt she had let him down, all these years her agency could not find a home for him. So many times after the Ohio fiasco, she had started calling Davion's number, only to say she was still there for him. But she would not have wanted to make him feel compelled to explain. When her phone rang on the hot night of July, Connie was in the hospital with her father, who was dying. She reached down to shut down her cell and then saw the number. "Davion?" She cried. • Connie Bell Going never meant to be a social worker. Or a mother. She had grown up in a marine family and moved between bases. A tall, blonde woman with a clear smile and loud voice, she had always loved the flute and planned to play professionally. After completing her music degree at the University of South Florida, she taught there for a few years, while hanging out with the Florida Orchestra. She got ready to go to New York to continue her studies and audition when a car accident broke her jaw — and silenced her flute. Connie therefore got a job driving mentally ill patients around in a van, and — for the first time — she felt like she was really helping people. "I kind of fell into social work," said Connie, 52. She became a case worker and eventually joined Eckerd, where she met a shy boy named Davion, who always wanted to hug her. She bought him pizza, pancakes and hot dogs. They bowled and went to the beach. She found a mentor, a college student who gave him a football. She followed him through foster homes and therapy sessions, to group home and adoption events. She made sure he was in the Heart Gallery, showing portraits of children who need home. She arranged for him to speak in that church. And every year, for a decade, Davion asked her at least once, "Why don't you just adopt me, Miss Connie?" "Because you deserve more," she said. "You need a father." After she had met Davion, her two daughters had grown into teenagers, her 16-year marriage had ended. She had rehabilitated an old house, obtained a motorcycle license, and helped more than 1000 children to be adopted. She even adopted one herself — 10-year-old Taylor, Davion's best friend from the group home, who had suffered through two unsuccessful games. Connie took Davion home with him a few weekends, to watch football and hang out with Taylor. But she couldn't let him stay. She was sad. Her house was too small, her own girls needed her, Taylor smashed doors. She promised Davion, "We'll find your own family." When Davion's story became viral, Connie sat next to him during his first flight — and his first interview on national television in New York City. When the attention became overwhelming, and the guys in the group home gave him a hard time, Connie let him sleep over. And when Davion went to Ohio, Connie helped him pack a small bag — and prayed for him every night. After hearing that he had been sent back, she continued to worry about him, thinking about how much he must be in pain. How would it feel, to be 16 and have none? • • She went into the hospital hall to receive his calls. "Davion?" she asked again. For a second there was silence. She heard his heavy breathing, felt his hesitation. When he spoke again, his voice was so soft that she could barely understand the words. He didn't say hello and didn't ask how she was. He let his hope fall out. "Do you remember what I asked you before?" he repeated. "I mean about. . . . "I'm sorry. Before she could answer, he took a deep breath and continued. "Well, what do you think about adopting me now?" This time Connie answered immediately. She was no longer his handler; she worked for the Heart Gallery. She had been waiting for Davion to ask again. If he still wanted her, she was ready for him now. She had talked to her children, and everyone agreed that we had to do this. Of course her friends thought she was crazy. Of course she knew it would be difficult. But how could she not bring him in? Davion couldn't believe Connie agreed. Are you sure? He kept pushing. Really? Then he started asking, when? In August, he began spending weekends with Connie and her girls, Sydney, 21, Carley, 17, and with his friend Taylor, who is now 14. They played paintball and PlayStation, grilled hamburgers and took their four dogs for walks. Davion had never had a dog. In December, Connie called an adoption agency, hired a lawyer, and rented a new house with four bedrooms and a pool. When she passed her home study, Davion moved in for good. He brought a garbage bag filled with T-shirts, a backpack packed with video games. And the Bible they had given him in his group home. Connie gave him the master bedroom with sliding glass doors to the patio. She helped him paint the walls in the clay's color, nailing anime posters above the agency; she bought him a queen-sized bed. Davion had never had his own room, or could hang pictures. He'd always curled up into a single bed. In the corridor between his door and Taylor's, Connie framed his portraits from Heart Gallery, from when they were nine. None of the boys have any baby pictures. "I guess I always thought of you as my mother," Davion said to her shortly before Christmas. "But now I can call you that for real, huh?" In February, they celebrated their birthdays — sharing the same date with her. Connie took Davion to get her license. Davion took her to get a pedicure. That night, over the cake, with Davion's three new siblings at their side, they signed the trial papers. On April 22, everything will be official. Eckerd didn't want to comment on what happened in Davion's case. Durdaller, the spokeswoman, said, "We are truly thrilled that Davion has been united with her eternal family." People from all over the world offered to adopt Davion, but the family he really wanted had been with him all along. • Since coming to live with Connie, Davion has not stopped talking. To his new sisters who constantly try to moderate him, to his new brother who has always been his best friend, to the four dogs and four cats who tumble throughout the house. Especially after dinner, when everyone else tries to see The Walking Dead. "Having Davion here means everything is much higher. All the time," Carley said one afternoon, while her brothers wrestled across the living room. "And I always thought he was a quiet child," Connie laughed. "In two hours today, he called, 'Mom!' 45 times." He tests her patience, she admits. There has been nothing happy ever since. All the children fight, punches are thrown, furniture is turned. Twice a week, a family therapist they call Mr. Ed comes to the house and meets them all together, then individually. "I'm okay with messy and difficult," Connie said. "You just have to wear your armor all the time, but it's more than worth it. And every day it gets a little better." Davion's pity, she said, astonishes her. No matter how hurt he's been, he's always worried about others. He asks everyone, all the time, if they're okay — even the dogs. Instead of joining another high school, Davion attends courses online this semester, earning a 3.1 GPA. He trains on the punching bag Connie hung by the pool. In the fall he hopes to get a job, start boxing and go back to school. He enjoys having sisters who care, a brother to hit Grand Theft Auto, a mother who does her laundry, makes him hashish brown and helps him shave his sideburns. But sometimes things get overwhelming. Sometimes, for no reason, he has to scream. Or boil in his room, pull blinds and kill virtual monsters. He's always got the lights on, a Nerf gun by his pillow. He's locking the door. Late at night, after everyone else has fallen asleep, he turns off the video games and lets Connie in. She glides up on the edge of his bed, on top of the cobalt-covered, close enough for her foot to bump his. She doesn't usually say much. She's just listening. While Davion talks and talks and talks. . . . . . . <unk>