Inheritance

Chapter 1

20 Years Ago

The California weather was finally beginning to cool, yet the sun remained vibrant. So much so, that I could feel its distinctive warmth prickling against my skin. But, the subtle heat hadn't been the least bit bothersome. Rather, it seemed to serve as a fervent reminder that the world had more to offer, apart from the chronic sorrow that had plagued my childhood years. 

My earliest memories consisted of my biological parents abandoning me along the porch steps of a local church. Left in a run-down car seat, I had nothing to show of my birth origins sans a crumpled piece of paper loosely attached to the car seat handle. The rushed scribbles on the torn note spelled out, Sasharae, which would become the name given to me by the volunteer coordinator who found me the following morning.

Apparently, my so called parents had been dirt-poor crack addicts living out of an alleyway across the street from the church. 

One day, they decided to pack as many belongings as they could fit into a stolen shopping cart and leave the city. My guess is I hadn't been worth the extra baggage, both figuratively and literally. At least, that's what I had always assumed. 

Truthfully, I couldn't recall a single detail about them. Nor did I care to.

After being left along those church steps, I set out on a trajectory that would entail being shuffled across several foster homes throughout the inland valley of California. Some were tolerable and others were in absolutely horrid conditions. Most of my foster parents had bordered the lines of being entirely neglectful, greedy, abusive, or simply indifferent toward their foster kids who would never surmount to the love they held for their own biological children. 

Not all of them had been unbearable though, and the foster home I currently lived in was a true testament to that. Larsa and Tom Franks were an older White couple who could not bear children of their own. Being so, they began fostering orphans until we were either adopted by a qualified, stable family or became legally emancipated. 

Given that I was a six-year-old African-American child living in a predominantly white neighborhood, my odds of adoption were close to none. Ironically, I didn't mind the notion of not being adopted because I truly loved being with the Franks. However, the positive sentiments I held for the couple couldn't be extended to the four other children living in the house. 

Sarah, Christopher, Anne Marie, and Charlie were my white foster siblings who'd already been living with the Franks long before I arrived. Oddly enough, they had somehow managed to bond over their consorted efforts to ostracize me from the children in the neighborhood and at school. 

Considering we lived in a very rural suburban town, I was one of the few black children who stuck out like gravy on mashed potatoes. As a result, it became an unsaid routine for them to bully me for my physical appearance--unruly curly hair, deep brown skin, and rounded nose. All of which were features I grew to resent.

Although I disliked it at home, I cherished going to school because I was one of the brightest students in my classroom. The public school I attended was the best in town and I took pride in finally being able to excel at something. Learning provided me with a much needed escape from the inopportune realities of my home life. I used it as an opportunity to delve into the abstract schemas offered by fictional novels, long-winded math problems, and theoretical science.  

Today, I rested on a self-made hammock nested on our grassy backyard scape, sandwiched between two trees on a jilted grass field. This was where I often resided when I wanted to avoid instigating any triggering interactions with my foster siblings. From where I lied, I held a book loosely in my hands that I had yet to read. Instead, I found myself briefly distracted by the bordering mountains of the San Bernardino landscape.