All Winds Blow Away Eventually

The First Meeting

I had been eight years old when I had first arrived at Playcare, and the past few days had been a parade of adults telling me how lucky I was to have been accepted into Playtime Co's very own Playcare, how many opportunities lay before me, how many friends I'd make, how much fun I would have, how very, very lucky I was.

It was basically like living in Playtime Park!

But it was hard to feel lucky or joyful or care about some 'theme park' when I had just lost my parents.

Years later, as a young adult, I would have realised that the folks at Playcare meant well--at least in terms of their overbearing positivity when I'd first arrived. Most kids arrived much younger than me--the large number of cribs in the nurseries made that clear. And the ones that were closer to my own age when they arrived had often spent some time in worse orphanages, foster care, bad adoptions, or bad biological families.

Playcare was indeed a significant step up with no downsides for most of the kids who found themselves here, whether they were old enough to appreciate that or not.

But my parents had loved me, and I had loved them. They'd cared for me. I had a nice home and had gone to a nice school. I had the same classmates, friends, and neighbors since we were all young.

I didn't want a new family. I didn't want new friends. I didn't want a new bed, a new home, a new school, or even a new toy, and I quickly grew tired of adults telling me how "lucky" I was to be given a chance to have any of that.

So I did just about the only thing an eight year old in my position could do. I sulked. I sulked as the counselors tried to help me get set up with a friend group, I sulked when prospective parents tried to get a read on me and I sulked when the doll teachers of the Playcare school tried to engage me in class activities.

I sulked right past the whimsy and wonder of having giant dolls as my teachers.

Most of the time I sat sullenly wherever I was placed. The adults mostly tolerated my sulkiness, at least having the sense to not outright chastise me or push me too hard, even if their positivity and smiles grew grating almost immediately. The other kids--being kids--didn't quite know what to make of me. I looked downright unfriendly as I sat there glowering, and those who deigned to try to introduce themselves were met with short, abrupt answers that quickly discouraged them.

And at night, when everyone fell asleep, I cried silently into my pillow, mourning my parents and the life I'd lost.

A month after I arrived, it was truly setting in that this was my new life. My old life was well and truly gone, forever.

And what triggered this realization? Salads.

There was an outdoor lunch that day--as "outdoor" as anything in Playcare was, anyway. A big picnic table held an assortment of sandwiches, snacks, sides, and drinks that students could pick to make their own lunches, which they then ate while sitting on the fake grass, mostly sitting in groups of two to five students.

I, though, was by myself, as always. I hadn't even bothered to grab a lunch.

Nearby, two girls had gotten salads from the big picnic table and were now trading the cherry tomatoes one of the girls didn't like for the green peppers the other girl didn't like.

Just like me and Mum used to.

It was so mundane, so innocuous. A little detail of my old life I hadn't even thought about for the past month. I had almost forgotten. How long until I did forget? What had I already forgotten?

It was too much. It had always been too much but suddenly it was way too much.

I barely registered that I'd stood up until I'd already run halfway around the school building, crouching behind it. I had been been far enough away from the main group seated on the grass that I had managed to slip away largely unnoticed.