Athena Grace (currently being re-written)

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alethophobia
Definition: a fear or dislike of the truth; an unwillingness to come to terms with the truth or facts
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Athena Grace

Sometimes, it's only when you lose something that you truly understand its value. Yet, if you've never had that thing, you can't grasp its worth or the emotions tied to it.

It may seem selfish, but I yearn to know who my family is. It feels selfish because I should let them go, shouldn't I? They abandoned me, after all.

It's selfish because, despite their absence, I want to ask them a simple question: Why? Why did they leave me? So many whys.

Returning to the first foster care centre I was placed in might be the worst decision I've ever made. The Los Angeles Orphan Home. The only way to get the information I need is through the orphanage I was left at. This is where Luca adopted me from.

As I stand before the imposing double brown wooden doors at the main entrance of the orphanage, I contemplate turning back and pretending I never came here. I don't remember anything about this place, but it sends chills down my spine—definitely not the good kind.

"Fuck it," I mutter to myself and step inside.

I walk toward the office, knock twice, and enter after hearing a "come in" from inside.

"Ah, Ms. Ricci," the middle-aged woman greets me with a smile as she approaches. I return the smile and shake her hand. She guides me to a single black couch in front of her desk and takes her seat before speaking again.

"May I ask why you're here? Are you looking to adopt, or are you here to leave a child after birth? Or do you already have one?" she inquires as soon as she sits down.

"None of the above." Her expression shifts to one of confusion.

"About 23 years ago, I was dropped off here by my biological family. I'd like to know their names."

"Ms. Ricci, I don't think it's possible for us to—"

"I'll donate one million dollars to the orphanage," I interrupt. Her eyes widened in shock at my words. A million wouldn't even make a dent in my bank account.

"The information will take time to gather, considering it was about 23 years ago. I'll send you what we have on your biological family as soon as possible," she replies, typing on her computer.

A small smirk of victory creeps onto my lips. It's amazing what people will do for money.

"I expect the information as quickly as possible. The sooner, the more money," I say, standing up and making my way toward the door of her office—what was her name again?—and out of the building.

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It's been a few hours since my phone buzzed, jolting me to alertness with a notification from the orphanage. Apparently, it took them less than four days to find the information I needed.

I still haven't opened the message. I can't bring myself to do it. I'm at a loss to explain why this small act feels so massive.

Why am I pursuing a family that didn't want me? Why seek out the very people who abandoned me without a second thought? It's a question that loops endlessly in my mind, each iteration twisting my insides. So why is it that, despite the anguish they caused me, I am now trying to reach out to them?

The fear washes over me like a wave. No, it's more than fear; I'm absolutely terrified. This is uncharted territory for me, and for the first time in my life, I don't believe I possess the strength to hold my ground.

If I learn their names, a part of me worries that I might feel compelled to act—to find them, to confront the ghosts of my past, and to see what my biological parents look like in the flesh.

Could there be brothers or sisters out there who share my blood? But then the pessimistic voice in my head chimes in: probably not. What if they, too, were relinquished to the same fate I endured, abandoned and forgotten?

And then there's the haunting question that grips my heart: what if I was just never loved at all?

The mere idea sends a sharp pain through me. it's a deep-seated ache that I can't seem to shake. I'm left to fight with shadows of doubt and uncertainty as I stand on this precipice, teetering between the fear of opening that message and the yearning for connection that has plagued me since childhood.

As I sit here, frozen in indecision, I can't help but wonder what I might discover if I finally summon the courage to click open that notification.

Will I find the answers I've been searching for, or will they lead me down a path of even more heartache? The weight of unanswered questions bears down heavily, and with every passing moment, the urgency to confront my past intensifies.

Fuck.

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(edited)

Please, do point out if anything is spelled wrong. :))