A few months before my thirteenth birthday, my foster father spoke at the
"As you know, Briget, we signed on only to take care of you until you
entered your teenage years. We hold to that. In April, just before your
birthday, you will be moved to a new foster home. You will probably live
there until you are old enough to own your own home. We have enjoyed our
time with you, but we feel that we would not be able to provide you with
the best possible environment as a teenager."
I rolled my eyes when he looked away. What time with me? They fed me and
gave me a place to sleep. Other than that I kept to myself and did what I
wanted. And of course they couldn't take care of a teenager. You needed
someone under 65 to do that best.
As he told me I would, I moved to a new foster home in April.
My new mother's name was Jenifer, the same as my real mother. Her husband
was Bruce. He was away from home most of the time. The last family member
was Amber. Amber was ten years old.
My first thoughts were, "Great, a little bratty sister."
My mother's voice echoed in my head, her telling me about her little sister
"It's very nice of you to take me in." I decided to tell them what they
needed to know before I retired to my new room, "My name is Briget Mae. I
would really appreciate it if you remembered the Mae part. I have few
boxes of things coming, mostly art supplies. Right now I only have a
suitcase of clothes and a painting for my room."
Amber showed my to my room, all decorated in pink with a green bunk bed and
a blue dresser. The yellow curtains clashed with the pansies on the
I thanked her and went about hanging my painting of my mother.
When I turned to unpack my suitcase, I saw Amber admiring the painting.
"It's my mother. She died when I was five." I didn't tell her the real
story. "Your mom said that dinner is around six. I'll come down then."
She took the hint and left. I realized afterwards that she hadn't spoken
since I got there. Maybe she was shy.
I took my sketchbook out of my bag and drew until dinner.