I was born at the age of four…
I remember nothing.
I don’t want to remember anything.
I wish to forget the fleeting images that sometimes cross my mind.
I was born four years old. For the longest time, I couldn’t understand what was happening to me. A grey mist shrouded and hid my early childhood. Everything was gloomy, angry, and foggy… there was a constant feeling of helplessness and my little brother’s perpetual crying. He was always hungry. Crying. And crying. To this day, the echoes of that crying haunt me.
When I see a child crying on the street, my heart skips a beat. I peer at his face—no, he isn’t thin; he is holding a bun. I look at his mother—young, beautiful, well-dressed… sober! So why are you crying?! You have everything! I feel like shouting at the boy—wait, don’t cry, stop those tears! You don’t even realize how lucky you are! Hold your mother tight and never let go! Never let go!!!
My greatest fear is losing my mum. The mum with whom I was born when I was four.
I remember waiting for my biological mum, my biological grandma, at the orphanage. I remember when grandma came. I hadn’t eaten sweets that day and gave them to her, asking her to give them to Johnny. She took them. A week later, she brought them back to me as a gift… only half of them. But I was happy even for that. Grandma said, “Wait for me,” and I never saw her again.
“Nice” people said I was unlikely to be taken home. Mum drinks, grandma drinks, dad said I wasn’t his daughter. No foster family would take me in either because an extra bit comes with me—Johnny, my little brother, and he is ill. No one wants sick children.
I understood everything immediately. I wasn’t waiting; I knew no one wanted me. If my own family didn’t come for me, it meant I was bad. The worst girl in the world. It was all my fault! Because I couldn’t calm my ever-crying brother, they took us from home. I was ready for any punishment.
When you don’t wait, don’t hope—it gets easier. You become indifferent to everything around. It didn’t matter what I ate, or drank, what I wore, where they took us, why. I fell asleep, not even asleep—I died. First inside, and then my body, trying to support me, gave up living.
I felt terrible. Painful. But I deserved it. Injections, drips, pills, and silence… long, exhausting silence. Suddenly—someone’s breath by my ear. A voice. Suddenly it was warm and soft. I opened my eyes. Someone was holding me. Unhurriedly, gently, but very tightly. Someone was rocking me and whispering something indistinct.
I can’t remember if it was a song or a prayer. I quickly shut my eyes. What if it’s a dream and it goes away? No, no! Dream, don’t go! I feel so good right now!
This is the moment I recall most often. It was my first meeting with my mummy. Her son had fallen ill. There in the hospital, Michael felt better, he had fallen asleep. Mum wrapped me in her cardigan and rocked me in her arms. I remember her hands, brushing my hair and smoothing it back. I remember her scent, her whisper near my cheek.
I remember being afraid to open my eyes. As tears betrayed me, streaming down my cheeks, mum wiped them away with her gentle palm. Then her tears began to fall on me. I remember how I wailed… cried out like a little dog. The pain inside me broke free at the most inopportune moment. Without opening my eyes, I wailed. Throughout the hospital. The doctors came and took me from mum. I couldn’t forgive myself for losing control; if I’d stayed quiet, those hugs could have lasted forever.
The next time I saw mum was at “Avis.” The time she visited me was so hard. I tried my best not to believe, not to wait for her. Or maybe I simply understood nothing. Difficult to say now.
One morning, mum took me home. I had never looked so beautiful before. I wore all new clothes. A dress, tights, shoes, a jumper, and even new underwear. That day we left the past behind forever.
In my new life, I had everything. A bed and a desk, pillows and toys, a wardrobe full of pretty clothes, and magical books. There were Michael and Lily. But no Johnny… At first, I was scared to move. I tried to speak and eat less. I wanted mum and dad to like me or at least not mind me. I didn’t know how to behave. I kept waiting for things to go wrong. For punishment to find me. Everything changed when mum told me she would never give me up to anyone!
No matter what I did. She said I was her child, and she was my mum. And it wasn’t our choice but destiny’s. And destiny knows best. So, mum said, let’s have some fun! We threw around piles of autumn leaves that day! Mum and dad buried us in leaves with Michael. Mum wove bright wreaths for our heads, and we all looked alike.
Johnny returned home quite suddenly. I didn’t recognize him and refused to believe he was my brother. When I realized who mum had brought home, terror filled me. What if he cries, misbehaves, makes noise?! They’ll take us away again. I begged Johnny to behave quietly, not to leave him alone so he wouldn’t mess anything up. Apologizing followed him in everything. He couldn’t walk well, his leg dragged, and his hand didn’t work at all. He dropped everything and broke things, but mum only laughed and hugged him. Soon I realized Johnny’s stay wasn’t threatened either, and I stopped worrying.
Every free moment I try to spend with mum. We can sit for hours and chat about this and that. I remember a big gathering when mum’s friends were discussing how much their babies weighed and measured at birth. How they first saw their little ones. The ground fell away beneath me. I couldn’t breathe.
Mum smiled and said that Michael was born weighing 8 pounds and 20.5 inches, Mary was 7 pounds and 18.5 inches, Johnny was 6 pounds and 17.5 inches, and Lily was 4.6 pounds and 17 inches, telling how she first saw us and how sweet and precious we all were and what she felt. I wished so much for it to be true that soon I came to believe in this lovely tale and let it replace my harsh memories.
Mum often rocked me, wrapped like a baby. I adore those moments. Even now, whenever I’m anxious, I sit next to mum, hold her hand, and realize there’s nothing as familiar as her scent, her kind smile, her caring gaze. Strangely, wherever I go, whatever I do, mum’s eyes are right before me. They can be cheerful, sad, joyful, or worried, tired or sparkling. And always loving! Mum looks at me with pride or concern… but never with indifference nor reproach. I, or rather all of us, try to be like our mum. And we wish for all children in the world to see such eyes from their mothers.
Author: Mary Greenfield.
