Most of my best memories come from that place. That place I called home. My safe haven. Yet little did I know that the place I called heaven would soon turn out to be my hell.
My first memories of Spain start when I was only 3 years old. This was the first time I flew on a plane and left home. My parents never came along, it was always just me. But as soon as I stepped foot in Spain, I realized I didn't need them. My family was there waiting for me. With their arms and hearts wide open, they took me in every year ever since. And every year, I anxiously waited for the seasons to pass and for summer to come. It was my time to go home.
My grandparents, aunts and uncles always treated me like a daughter. For my birthday, there was always a huge party and I always got the best gifts.
I was happy. This was the only place that made me happy.
When I was there, I never wanted to leave and I always dreaded the end of summer. I know every kid hates this too but for me, it was different. I only got 3 months of full happiness that made up for 9 months of emptiness.
New York wasn't bad and my parents and sisters certainly weren't bad people either. I just didn't fit in. I didn't look like anybody in my family. I was labeled the odd one in my house. It was just so different.
"Well, duh Steffi..it's because you're adopted" my sister Jocelyn would often say.
I always ignored her but as the years went by, I started to believe she was right. I was always the black sheep in my family, and I was definitely not one of the favorites. I suppose this could be because I am the middle child but somehow, something felt wrong.
YOU ARE READING
The Girl I Used to Know
General FictionSteffi's childhood was a rough one. Alcoholic father. Abused mother. Singe mother. Her life was filled with worries and responsibilities a 9 year old shouldn't have. But even all throughout those moments, she had one place she could always run back...
