This story is more about a story of family and who we call our family than it is about the main character, Paris being a biracial child.

Paris and her brother Malcolm, had a trifling mother whose irresponsibleness landed them in a string of horrible foster homes. When Paris and Malcolm ran away from the latest home, they went to their grandmother's. This evil woman agreed to let them stay for three days then called child services and had them split up. She wouldn't keep them because she had raised her children already. That was hard for me to read. As a mom, I couldn't imagine not taking care of my own children and if I ever have grandchildren, I couldn't ever imagine turning them away.

At this point, Malcolm disappears and the story is mostly about Paris. She finally lands in the home of the Lincolns and slowly gets used to them. She even makes a new friend Ashley. But one day Ashley's dad returns home from a business trip and when Paris goes over to her house to ask her to play, Ashley's father demands to know who the "blonde-haired nigger girl is" that's standing on his porch.

My heart broke at that point because when I was a little girl in Jersey in the 1970s, I went to a classmate's house to play and when her mother answered the door, I was told that I wasn't allowed to play with her ever again and the door was slammed in my face. I was 10. Still haven't forgotten that.

But, I digress. This is a really great story of knowing who you are and knowing that family is more than the people we shared DNA with. It's also a story of how sometimes people who don't share our DNA take better care of us than those who are our "blood."

The reason I gave the book four stars is because I wanted it to be longer. But, it's a book for a younger audience, so brevity is par for the course.