The Past Within

The Unseen

Tamara Collins was only eight years old when her world shattered. One moment, she was a happy, carefree child with two loving parents; the next, she was an orphan. The car accident had taken them from her in the blink of an eye, leaving behind nothing but the harsh memory of flashing lights and sirens, and the crushing weight of her loss. She had no other family, no place to call home. And so, Tamara became a child of the system.

Her first foster home was quiet. Too quiet. The couple that took her in wasn't cruel, but they weren't warm either. They fed her, clothed her, and made sure she went to school, but beyond that, she was invisible. Tamara felt like a ghost moving through their house, her footsteps silent, her voice almost forgotten. The walls were bare, the silence thick, and Tamara couldn't help but feel like she was just another piece of furniture. Unwanted. Unseen.

At night, she would lie in bed, clutching the small stuffed bear her mother had given her. It was the only thing that remained from her old life, the only piece of home she had left. She'd press it tightly to her chest, her tears soaking into its fur as she tried to remember the sound of her parents' voices. But the memories grew fainter with each passing day.

She was moved again six months later, the social worker gently explaining that her foster family "couldn't take care of her anymore." Tamara didn't ask why. She had already learned that questions rarely had answers.

Her second home was louder, chaotic in ways she hadn't expected. There were three other foster children there, all older than her, and the noise never seemed to stop. Shouting, arguing, things breaking—it was a constant storm, and Tamara was lost in the middle of it. The foster parents were overwhelmed, barely able to manage the kids they already had, let alone one more. Tamara tried to be good, to stay out of the way, to not be a burden. But in a house where everyone was fighting to be heard, her silence only made her more invisible.

She would sit in the corner of her shared bedroom, hugging her knees, the stuffed bear now worn and ragged from too much squeezing. The other kids would mock her, call her names, but she never fought back. She kept her head down, her heart heavy with the weight of loss she still didn't understand.

Another year passed, and Tamara was uprooted again. This time, it was a foster home with strict rules—no talking during dinner, no playing after school, no friends allowed over. The foster parents were older, set in their ways, and Tamara felt like an intruder in their well-ordered life. She followed every rule, did everything they asked, but nothing she did ever seemed to be enough. No matter how hard she tried, she could never shake the feeling that she didn't belong.

The social worker would visit every few months, asking how she was doing, but Tamara didn't have the words to explain the hollow feeling inside her. The social worker smiled, took notes, and promised things would get better. But they didn't.

As the years passed, the foster homes blurred together—different houses, different faces, but always the same sense of emptiness. Each time she moved, she would pack her few belongings in a small suitcase, the stuffed bear always tucked carefully inside. It was the only constant in her life, the only piece of her parents she had left.

By the time she was twelve, Tamara had stopped hoping. She had learned that families weren't forever, that homes weren't permanent, and that love wasn't something meant for her. She had built walls around her heart, shutting out the pain, the loneliness, the longing. It was easier that way. Easier to be invisible, to expect nothing.

She had stopped asking "why me?" a long time ago.

But somewhere deep inside, buried beneath the layers of loss and abandonment, was a small flicker of hope. A hope that one day, maybe, someone would see her. Someone would care. But for now, Tamara remained in the shadows, a child of the system, waiting for a place she could truly call home.