It's Always Been You

Sarah

This morning I woke up to someone beating my door instead of the cheerful birds living in the one lonely pine tree next door. 

"Open up!" A loud voice called. 

My eyes slowly opened groggily. 

"Coming," I said, and slowly sat up in bed, wiping my hands across my face and walking into the bathroom to look in the mirror. My hair was frizzy and tangled, dark circles took their spots for the day underneath my eyes, and my clothes were wrinkled and had stains. Perfect. 

I opened the door to see a young man, maybe in his 20s. He had a small mustache and thick brown hair that ran along his shoulders. 

"Gather your stuff. We're leaving in 15 minutes," he said. 

"What?" I asked confused. "Sir, I think you've got the wrong house."

"You're Sarah, right?" he questioned. 

"Yes," I hesitantly replied. 

"Your mother died last night being hit by a car. I'm sorry for your loss, but because you're not 18, we legally have to take you in to get you adopted."

His words sunk into my brain, but they didn't stay. As soon as they drove in, my brain drove them right back out again. She couldn't be dead. She just couldn't. 

"No." I said. I wasn't about to let this strange man take me from my own home. I've lived here on my own for most of my life. I've been doing fine. I do the grocery shopping, the dishes, the laundry, the cleaning. No way was this man going to take me away from it all. 

"Get your things," he said, exasperated. 

"No." 

He walked in behind me and started taking things out, stuffing them in an old bag I had in my closet. 

"Stop!" I yelled, watching as he shoved my clothes and books, one by one, into my bag. 

"Let's go," he said, grabbing my arm, pulling me away. 

"No." I held onto the door so tightly, my knuckles turned white as I struggled to stay put. It didn't work. He was so much stronger than me, and easily yanked me away from my only home, and shoved me in the car. 

As he hit the gas pedal, we sat in silence as we drove away from my only home. 

Tears threatened to fall down my face, but I bit my lip and cheek until the feeling passed. There was no way I was crying in this moment. 

I wasn't actually going to cry because my mother died. Sure, she was my mother, but I didn't really know her. It's kind of like hearing an old second cousin died, even though you only met them once. It feels like you should care, and you should be sorry, but you're really not. 

The only good memory I have with my mother is after I came home from my second day of kindergarten. John, one of the boys I went to school with, stole my new elephant pen, the one I wrote with every day, the one I got for Christmas. I was so upset and came home crying. My mother just held me in her arms and told me everything was going to be okay. She even bought me a new pen, a dinosaur one. The next day I went into school, everyone looked at me with jealousy. I just smiled, but when I came home to talk about it with my mother, she was gone. Typical; Again. She always managed to let me down. So no, I'm not sad because she died. I'm sad I have to leave the only place that was my home. 

The place where I sat down to study for exams. 

The place I went where I was lonely, wishing I had some friends to invite over. 

The place I wished where I would have a father and mother who cared enough about me to stay and talk to me; to help me with my homework or just to spend time with me. 

The place I stayed for all 16 years of my life, alone. 

But now, it was gone, and I wasn't going back there.