Leah was still leaning against my desk, as if she had been waiting to pounce. “People are crazy,” she remarked.
“I just hope this guy doesn’t keep sending letters,” I told her.
“My mom always told me that you never let bad people take up your time or brain space just because they think they’re entitled to it.”
Her words hit closer to home than she knew. My mom had also taught me something similar too—before she left.
My father had already walked out when I was five, causing my mother to turn to whatever bottle of alcohol she could find. When my mother finally spiraled, I ended up in the foster system. It wasn’t much, but it stuck with me.
I never knew much about my parents beyond scraps of memory and what people had told me. Supposedly, I was a good mix of both of them. My father was Haitian, my mother Portuguese. From him I inherited my terrible eyesight—hence the glasses or contacts I wore daily just to see more than three feet in front of me—and a love of Caribbean food. From my mother I got my super curly brown hair, short stature, my curves—complete with big hips and big boobs—and a complexion that settled somewhere between her fair skin and his darker tone, leaving me with a bronzed look that was all my own.
After entering the foster system, I was placed with the O’Hara family, and they were great. I honestly couldn’t have asked for a better family to end up with.
Winnie and Tia O’Hara were sisters who had also been through the foster system, constantly bumping around because no one wanted two older sisters.
They had dedicated their adult lives to opening their doors to as many foster girls as they could, determined to give them stability instead of endless moves. Some girls hadn’t stayed long, usually because a parent or relative eventually stepped in to care for them. But for the ones whose families either couldn’t—or simply wouldn’t—take them back, the O’Haras made sure we always had a place to belong. I was one of those lucky ones.
Winnie—who we just called Mom—and Tia—which was Spanish for aunt, so we’d always called her Auntie—lived on a small property in Stratus Cove, a coastal town in Northern California. The place was beautiful—lush green landscape, salty ocean air, and friendly people who waved at you on the street. Being a small town, everybody knew everybody’s business, but that also meant they knew what the O’Hara women did. Nobody batted an eyelash when another foster kid appeared at their house. It was just accepted.
Most people couldn’t imagine what it felt like to wonder if anyone would remember your birthday or whether you’d have a seat saved for you at Thanksgiving dinner. For kids growing up with their own families, that kind of security blanket was a given. For foster kids like me, it wasn’t.
In total, there were more than fifteen girls the O’Harawomen had fostered, but only five of us had stayed permanently—Gale, Cora, Anna, Hazel, and me.
I was closest with Anna because she and I had arrived around the same time, when I was eleven and Anna was ten.
Anna and I had shared a room and instantly bonded. Not just because we arrived at the same time, but also because we realized over time that we shared a lot in common. We had never had pets growing up but always wanted them. The O’Haras had them. We had two dogs, three barn cats, two llamas, and an ostrich. We all had chore duty on the small farm, helping out, but I loved it. Animals didn’t judge you like people did. You could just be yourself around them, and they didn’t care.
As if I had conjured them up with just my thoughts, my phone buzzed with several incoming texts.
Hazel:
Ladies! The storm last night was epic and washed up hella awesome shells for my collection! I got a fully-intact conch shell, four sand dollars, an iridescent paua abalone, and perfectly symmetrical chambered nautilus!!!
Cora:
Nerd alert.
I giggled at the emoji with glasses she’s included.
Gale:
I have no idea what half of that stuff is, but I’m happy for you.
Anna:
Are you allowed to just steal all this stuff from the beach on a regular basis?
Hazel:
It’s not stealing if it’s for research!
Anna:
Famous last words.
Me:
Speaking of stealing…
