They welcomed me with bright, reassuring smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. “We’re going to take care of you, Lila,” Marcia told me, smoothing my hair in a way that reminded me uncomfortably of someone petting a skittish dog. “You’re part of our family now.”
And because I was alone, because I wanted so desperately for someone to want me, I nodded and let myself believe her.
The court placed it under the care of my new guardians. Under the care of the Aldens. For a while, I noticed nothing unusual.
At ten, my concerns were smaller and simpler: navigating a new school, learning the rhythms of a house that wasn’t mine, and figuring out where I fit among people who didn’t know how to comfort a grieving child. The Aldens had one daughter: Brenna, a year older than me. She was everything I wasn’t at the time: confident, outspoken, sure of her place in the world.
I wanted her to like me. I thought maybe we could become sisters, or at least friends. But Brenna made her stance clear early on.
“Why do you even live here?” she asked one afternoon as we played in the backyard. “You’re not really one of us. My parents just felt sorry for you.”
Her words stung like a slap, but I swallowed the hurt and said nothing.
That became a pattern. Whenever I thought about asking why Brenna got elaborate birthday parties while mine became “quiet family dinners,” I stayed silent. Whenever I wanted to ask why her room was filled with new clothes while mine held castoffs, I bit my tongue.
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