Trust Me

Secrets of my Past

I often wondered about my birth mother. Did she look like me? What was she like? Most of the time I wondered, why did she leave me? I like to hope that she didn’t want to leave me, that there was some sort of reason. I also hoped that she loved me like I was the most precious person in her life

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I was left at that foster home when I was two, only a little girl. There was no one there, no one to protect me from horrible insults, scary teachers or cruel bullies. No one to tell me they loved me and I was their best girl. I was alone, unwanted and concealed in an old foster home.

The foster home was in France, hidden away down a street in Paris. It looked like a crumbling old warehouse. When I was in there I felt like trash, it helped me to understand the reality of being a throw away.

There were some kids in the foster home who honestly believed that they were going to be adopted by someone who really love them. I knew it was never going to happen, if I was going to be adopted it wouldn’t be like those fairy tales. I was right.

They came into the foster home one day. Neither of them fitted in. They were polished, glamorous. Their perfect looks made everyone in the foster home a bit more self-conscious and shy. I saw them march in, bodyguards behind them.

The other children were whispering cautiously about them. Even young children could tell that there was something different about them. Soon after, all of the kids were called into the foyer. The man out of the couple glanced around at the eager children.

I had been pushed towards the back, hidden from the view of anyone. I was the runt of the litter. None of the other children cared about me. The couple looked around at the children like they were accessing them.

“What about that girl at the back?” asked the woman who was painted in makeup as she pointed to me. “The small one,”

“Step forward,” declared the owner of the foster home.

Everyone was looking at me. Shocked jealous looks were being thrown around the room. I gingerly stepped forward, my old worn shoes banging loudly on the cold, marble floor. The woman stared at me as she took in the grungy clothes, scabbed knees and scared expression on my face.

“What do you think?” asked the woman’s husband as he looked at me with disgust.

“She’s perfect,” the woman said as she smiled coolly like a lioness ready to pounce on her prey. I shrank away frightened by her.

“Come over here,” the owner of the foster home commanded in a frustrated tone. I walked over closer to the couple; my legs were as shaky as a newborn fawn’s. As I stood near the evidently important man and woman, their looks of disgust were obvious.

“Take her off to be cleaned up while we sort out the payment,” the man told the bodyguards sharply. One of the bodyguards took my hand and began to lead me out of the place that had been like a home for many years.

“Do you have any belongings?” he asked in inarticulate French. I shook my head and gestured to the grubby rabbit toy in my arms. Over the years, little keepsakes that I had were taken by other children. Now I only had the clothes I was wearing and of course my stuffed animal.

The American bodyguard talked loudly to his colleagues. He didn’t know that I could understand every word he said. No one at the foster home knew that I could speak English.

When I arrived at the very beginning, I couldn’t speak a word of French. I learnt a lot through hearing other children chatter away fluently in French. After years of living here, I still wasn’t perfect at the language. I’d pronounce words incorrectly and say the wrong thing. It caused me to be the target of some children’s taunts. They all just assumed that I was dumb.

The bodyguard led me out of the foster home into a sleek, black limousine. It was then that I realised just how powerful and rich my adoptive parents were. I huddled up in the big seat, hugging my toy rabbit close. The limousine pulled up at the back of a glamorous looking hotel.

“Now you’re going to go with her,” the American bodyguard told me as he pointed to a young, dark skinned woman waiting by the staircase. I got out of the car and looked around at my surroundings. Bright lights, loud engine noises and busy people caught my interest.

“It’s busy, isn’t it?” the young woman said kindly. “My name is Emily and I’m going to look after you,” I looked at her curiously.

“Isn’t my new mum going to look after me herself?” I whispered. Emily laughed quietly.

“Your new mum is very busy, too busy at the moment,” Emily grabbed my grimy hand and clucked at the state of my clothes.

“Oh dear, I think you should hop in the bath first,”

I followed her through the beautifully decorated hotel, up stairs, through corridors until we finally got to floor 23.

“This is your new family’s floor, you can only stay on this level,” she warned me. Emily pulled out a shiny silver key and fitted it into the lock on the door.

“Now this room is just for you,” I gasped in awe, it was so big and it was filled with such expensive looking furniture.

“Straight to the bath, missy” Emily told me.

As I sat in the bath, special shampoos and body lotions were poured all over me. Emily did a good job of scrubbing me clean. The bath water was a grey colour when I got out. I was handed a soft white towel to wrap myself in. Emily smiled at me warmly.

“You look so much better after your bath; do you want to see yourself in the mirror?”

I peered at the stranger in the mirror, her caramel hair was gleaming and her skin looked clean and fresh. I was led by Emily to a wardrobe filled with clothes. She held up a Gucci dress and a Prada skirt.

“How should a child be able to buy these dresses and I don’t even have enough money for half of it,” Emily muttered to herself in English.

“You can have the dresses,” I said in English. “I don’t want them,”

Emily looked at me with a shocked expression on her face.

“I didn’t know that you spoke English,” she told me as she stared at me with astonishment.

“I don’t think anyone does,” I said shyly.

“Then how did you- I mean why didn’t you- you must be very good at keeping secrets,” Emily said finally.

“I’m the best,” I told her proudly.