I was born at the age of four…
I remember nothing. I don’t want to remember anything. I wish to forget the fleeting memories that sometimes flash through my mind.
I was born at four years old. For the longest time, I couldn’t fathom what was happening to me. A gray haze enveloped my early childhood, obscuring it. Everything was foggy, gloomy, and angry… A constant feeling of helplessness accompanied by my little brother’s incessant cries. He was always hungry and cried and cried. That wailing haunts me still.
I see a child sobbing on the street, and my heart stops. I look closely at his face—no, he’s not thin, and there’s a bun in his hands. I glance at his mother—she is beautiful, young, well-dressed… sober! So why are you crying? You have everything you need! I want to shout at the boy—stop, don’t cry, stop weeping! You have no idea how lucky you are! Hug your mom and never let go! Never let go!!!
Nothing scares me more than the thought of losing my mom. The mom I got when I was four.
I remember waiting for my biological mom and grandma at the orphanage. I remember when grandma arrived. I hadn’t eaten any sweets that day and gave them to her, asking her to pass them to my little brother, Billy. She accepted them. A week later, she brought half of them back to me as a treat. I was grateful for even that. Grandma said, “Wait for me,” and I never saw her again.
‘Kind’ people told me it was unlikely anyone would take me. My mom drank, my grandma drank, my dad said I wasn’t his child. No foster family would take me because I came with baggage—Billy, my little brother, who was ill. No one wants sick children.
I understood everything at once. I didn’t wait; I knew no one wanted me. If my own family wouldn’t come for me, then I must be bad. The worst girl in the world. I was to blame for everything! It was because I couldn’t calm my perpetually crying brother that we were taken from home. I was ready for any punishment.
When you stop waiting, stop hoping—it becomes easier. Everything around became indifferent. I didn’t care what I ate, drank, wore, or where they led us, or why. I fell asleep, not even asleep—I died. First inside, then my body, struggling to support me, no longer wanted to live.
I felt very bad. It hurt. But I deserved it. Injections, drips, pills, and silence… a long, exhausting silence. Suddenly—someone’s breath at my ear. A voice. Suddenly, it was warm and soft. I opened my eyes. Someone was holding me. Without fuss, somehow slowly, gently, but firmly. Someone rocked me and murmured indistinctly in my ear.
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 leave! I feel so good right now!
This is the moment I recall most often. It was my first encounter with my mom. Her son had fallen ill. In the hospital, Tommy felt better and fell asleep. Mom laid him down and wrapped me in her cardigan, rocking me in her arms. I remember her hands smoothing my hair away from my face. I remember her scent, her whispers near my cheek.
I remember fearing to open my eyes. How tears traitorously spilled down my cheeks, how mom wiped them away with her gentle hand. Then her tears began to fall on me. I remember how I wailed… not cried, but howled like a puppy. The pain inside me erupted at the most inopportune moment. Without opening my eyes, I howled. Across the hospital. Doctors rushed in and took me from mom. I couldn’t forgive myself for losing control; had I stayed silent, the embrace might have lasted forever.
The next time I saw mom was at the adoption center. The times she visited were very tough on me. I tried my hardest not to believe, not to expect her. Or perhaps I just didn’t understand anything. It’s hard to say now.
One morning, mom took me home. I’d never been so beautiful before. Everything I wore was new. A dress, tights, shoes, cardigan, and even underwear. On this day, we left the past forever.
In my new life, I had everything. A bed and a desk, pillows and toys, a closet full of lovely clothes, and magical books. There was Tommy, and there was Lily. But there was no Billy… For a while, I was afraid to move. I tried to speak and eat less. I wanted to please mom and dad, or at least not bother them. I didn’t know how to behave. I kept waiting for when things would go wrong. When punishment would find me. Everything changed when mom reassured me, saying she’d never give me away to anyone!
No matter what I did. She said I was her child, and she was my mom. And this was decided not by us, but by fate. Fate knows best. So, mom said, let’s have some fun! We scattered heaps of autumn leaves that day! Our parents buried Tommy and me in the leaves. Mom wove bright wreaths for our heads, making us look alike.
Billy appeared at our house quite unexpectedly. I didn’t recognize him and couldn’t believe it was my brother for the longest time. When I realized who mom brought home, terror filled me. What if he cried, messed around, made noise?! We’d be taken from the home. I pleaded with Billy to behave, stuck close to him so he wouldn’t spoil anything. But even if he did, mom wouldn’t have noticed. Something was always happening with Billy. He walked poorly, dragged his leg, and his arm didn’t work at all. He dropped and broke everything, and mom just laughed and hugged him. Soon, I realized Billy wasn’t at risk of being sent away, and I stopped worrying.
Every second I can, I spend with mom. We sit and chat about this and that for hours. I remember in a large gathering, mom’s friends reminisced about the weights and lengths their babies were at birth. How they first laid eyes on their newborns. It felt like the ground vanished beneath me. I couldn’t breathe.
Mom smiled and said Tommy was 8 lbs 6 oz and 20 inches, Maisie was 7 lbs and 18.5 inches, Billy was 6 lbs and 17.5 inches, while Lily was 4 lbs 10 oz and 17.3 inches, and shared how she first saw us, how wonderful and dear we all were, and what she felt. I wished it to be true so much that soon enough I believed this beautiful tale and replaced my hard memories with it.
Mom often cradled me, wrapping me as if I were a baby. I adore those moments. Even now, whenever something troubles me, I sit beside mom, take her hand, and realize there’s nothing dearer than her scent, her warm smile, her caring gaze. Amazingly, wherever I am, whatever I do, mom’s eyes are in front of me. They could be happy, sad, joyful, or worried, tired, or sparkling. But always loving! Mom looks at me with pride or concern… but never indifference or reproach. We, all of us, try to be like our mom. And we wish for every child in the world to see such eyes from their moms.
