My name is Ricky and I am a nineteen-year-old young man who still, voluntarily, lives with his beautiful mother and two sisters. Life for me got off to a bit of a rocky start. I was found abandoned in a dumpster at only three months old, by Shauna and David Ferguson, and although it sounds cliche, I could not have asked for better parents. Even though I was adopted, I was never treated any differently (better or worse) than any of the children to come; in fact, I only learned of the fact of my adoption after snooping through some of my parent's files a few years ago. From that early moment on, my life seemed absolutely perfect until about two and a half years ago. On January 3, 1998, my dad's car was hit head on by a semi-trucker driver who had lost control of his rig. At that moment, it was if our whole life was put into a blender and nothing was ever the same again. My perfect GPA sank slowly but steadily until graduation and I luckily slid by on a 1.9 GPA only because I had received only straight A's prior to the accident. My sister, Samantha, began hanging around with wilder friends and even picked up the habit of smoking for a short period of time. Janey, the youngest of us -- only 8 years old, dealt with the situation most often by crying upstairs in her room. Mom had it hardest of all, I think, due to the fact that she was responsible for all of us and additionally was three months pregnant at the time of the accident. The only upside to the situation was that Dad had wisely chosen to invest in life insurance for us all, and upon his death, my mother was surprised with the tidy sum of $500,000, but even still she continued to maintain her position as head nurse of the OBGYN clinic at Washington Memorial. Six months later, she gave birth to little Jenny, a baby that she would lose to a hit-and-run drunk driver two years later, just two short months ago, bringing her tired existence to a new low. For us, life was merely improving at a snail's pace for the two years to follow. Life seemed almost hellish and I was beginning to hate my family, avoiding contact with them whenever possible, usually through watching television in my room or spending the afternoons working in the garage on my '64.5 Ford Mustang that I planned to restore to "classic" condition.