I wonder what her name is. I wonder how old she is. I wonder if they ever told her about me or if I'm just in their memories. I wonder if they even remember me, talk about me.
I'm twenty three years old. I grew up in a bunch of different foster homes, being passed around like the collection plate at church. I kept to myself to prevent the inevitable heartbreak when it came time for me to leave. I wasn't abused, wasn't neglected. Wasn't groped by any fosters fathers or brothers.
I was never adopted, obviously. Everyone says the babies go first, but I was never chosen. From what I understand, I didn't cry much, didn't beg for attention, didn't really behave badly. A perfect child. But there I was, stuck in the system till I finally aged out.
My last foster mother gave me some money. It was only a few hundred dollars, but I was extremely grateful, especially when I could buy myself a bus ticket and still afford the deposit for a cheap apartment.
A new start.