A Home After All

I was adopted.

They were so good to me that every night before I fell asleep, I prayed to grow up healthy and happy in this home.

Then Mom got pregnant. I hid under my covers and cried all night, quietly packing the little suitcase I had arrived with.

But they didn't send me away. They loved me even more.

The day my brother was born, Mom took my hand and gently stroked my head. "Having an older sister," she said, "is why we have a younger brother."

Dad lifted me above his head and spun me around laughing. "Lily is our family's lucky star — our most beloved baby!"

I finally stopped dreading every single day. I thought I had truly become part of this family.

Then my brother snapped my favorite Barbie in half. I pushed him. He stumbled, sat on the floor, stared for two seconds, and burst into tears.

Mom panicked, shoved me aside, and pulled him into her arms, asking over and over if he was hurt.

Dad came running. He grabbed my shoulders and slammed me against the wall, eyes blazing. "Is this what I raised you all these years for — to bully your brother? Believe me when I say I will send you straight back to—"

"Mark!"

Mom cut Dad off before he could finish.

But she did not have to let him say the rest. I understood anyway.

The kids at the group home had been right. Children like us, children who were adopted, were only loved until the family had a real baby of its own. Once a younger brother or sister arrived, we were sent back.

I had been stupid enough to think I might be the exception.

I bit my lip and said nothing. I watched Mom and Dad fuss over my little brother, soothing him as they took him out the door.

The door closed softly behind them.

It was not loud, but it landed in my chest like a stone.

I thought I would cry. I did not. My eyes stayed dry, almost painfully dry. I stood in the living room for a very long time before going back to my room and dragging the little suitcase out from under my bed.

Five years ago, I had dragged that same suitcase into this home.

I had been so small then that I could barely remember the children's home. What I remembered was Mom crouching in front of me, her eyes bright and kind, asking, "Do you want to come home with me?"

I nodded.

She smiled.

Back then, her smile was prettier than anyone's at the group home.

But just now, there had been no trace of that smile in her eyes.

When she left holding my brother's hand, she did not even look back at me.

Neither did Dad.

They must really be planning to send me back.

If they were going to say it sooner or later, I would rather go first.

At least that way, it would not be quite so humiliating.

I could tell the kids at the group home, "They didn't abandon me. I chose to go back."

They probably would not believe me.

Still, it would sound better than the truth.

I brushed the dust off the suitcase and pulled open the rusty zipper.

First, I packed clothes.

My favorite blue dress. The sweater Mom knitted for me last year. The red scarf that had started to pill at the edges.

I folded everything carefully and placed it inside.

I did not dare take too much. I was afraid they would think I was greedy.

Then came the toys.

I hesitated for a long time before choosing only two things: a white stuffed rabbit and a plastic bracelet shaped with a little moon charm.

The rabbit was the first gift Mom ever gave me here. On my first night in this house, she tucked it into my arms and said, "Let her sleep with you. Then you won't be scared."