I was born as a four-year-old…
I remember nothing. I don’t want to remember anything. I wish to forget what sometimes flickers in my mind.
I was born a four-year-old. For ages, I couldn’t figure out what was happening to me. A dull gray haze shrouded my early childhood, everything was foggy, grim, and angry. There was a constant feeling of helplessness and the ceaseless crying of my little brother. He was always hungry, always wailing. That crying haunts me even now.
I look at a crying child in the street, and my heart stops. I study his face—no, he’s not skinny, he’s even holding a biscuit. I glance at his mother—young, beautiful, well-dressed… sober! So why the tears?! You have everything! I want to shout at the kid—hold on, stop weeping! You don’t understand how lucky you are! Hug your mother and never let go! Never let go!!!
More than anything, I fear losing my mum. My mother, who became mine when I was four.
I remember waiting for my biological mum, my biological grandmother at the orphanage. I remember Grandma coming. I hadn’t eaten any sweets that day and gave them to her, asking her to pass them to Charlie. She took them. A week later, she brought them back as a gift… only half of them. I was grateful nonetheless. Grandma said, “Wait for me,” and I never saw her again.
‘Kind’ people told me no one would likely take me. Mum drank, Grandma drank, Dad said I wasn’t his child. No foster family would take me, especially since there was an add-on—Charlie, my little brother, and he’s sick. No one wants sick kids.
I understood immediately. I wasn’t waiting, I knew no one needed me. If my family didn’t come for me, I must be bad. The worst girl in the world. It’s all my fault! Because I couldn’t calm my forever-crying brother, we were taken from home. I’m ready for any punishment.
When there’s no hope, it becomes easier. Everything around becomes indifferent. I didn’t care what I ate, what I wore, where they took us, or why. I didn’t fall asleep, I died. First inside, then my body, supporting me, didn’t want to live.
I felt terrible. It hurt. But I deserved it. Injections, drips, pills, and silence… long, exhausting silence. Suddenly—at my ear, someone’s breath. A voice. It became unexpectedly warm, soft. I opened my eyes. Someone was holding me. Calmly, gently, but firmly. Someone rocked me, whispered incoherently.
I can’t remember if it were a song or prayer. I shut my eyes quickly. What if it’s a dream that’ll vanish? No no! Dream, don’t leave! I feel so good!
This moment I recall most often. It was my first meeting with Mum. Her son got ill. In the hospital, Mike felt better; he slept. Mom tucked him in and, wrapping me in her coat, rocked me in her arms. I remember her hands smoothing my hair, pushing it from my face. I remember her scent, her whisper near my cheek.
I remember fearing to open my eyes. How tears ran treacherously down my cheeks, how Mum wiped them with a soft palm. Then her tears began to fall on me. I remember howling… not crying, howling, like a puppy. The pain inside burst out at the least appropriate moment. Without opening my eyes, I howled. Throughout the hospital. Doctors rushed in and took me from Mum. I couldn’t forgive myself for not holding back; had I kept quiet, the embrace would have continued forever.
The next time I saw Mum was at ‘Haven’. Her visits were tough on me. I tried hard not to believe, not to expect her. Maybe I just didn’t understand anything. It’s hard to say now.
One morning, Mum took me home. I’d never been so beautiful. I wore everything new: a dress, tights, shoes, a cardigan, even underwear. That day, we left the past behind forever.
In my new life, I had everything. A bed and table, pillows and toys, a wardrobe full of lovely clothes, and magical books. There were Mike and Lily. But not Charlie… At first, I was afraid to move. I tried to speak and eat less, wanted to please Mum and Dad or at least not bother them. I didn’t know how to behave. I kept waiting for things to turn bad. Waiting for punishment to find me. Everything changed when Mum said she’d never, for anything, give me away!
No matter what I did. She said I was her child, and she was my Mum. And it wasn’t decided by us, but by fate. And fate knows best. So, Mum said, let’s play! We scattered so many autumn leaves that day! Parents buried us with Mike in leaves. Mum wove bright wreaths for our heads, and we looked alike.
Charlie came home quite unexpectedly. I didn’t recognize him and didn’t believe for a long time he was my brother. When I realized who Mum brought home, terror filled me. What if he cried, misbehaved, made noise?! They’d take us away. I begged Charlie to be quieter, didn’t leave his side so he wouldn’t ruin anything. Even if he had, Mum wouldn’t have noticed. And with Charlie, something always happened. My brother struggled to walk, dragged a leg, and one arm didn’t work at all. He dropped and broke everything, but Mum just laughed and hugged him. Soon I realized Charlie wasn’t at risk of being sent away, and I stopped worrying.
I spend every free moment I can with Mum. We sit for hours chatting about this and that. I remember being among Mum’s friends, who were talking about their children’s birth weights and heights. How they first saw their little ones. The ground slipped from under me. I couldn’t breathe.
Mum smiled and said that Mike was born 8 pounds 5 ounces and 20 inches, Mary 7 pounds with a length of 18 inches, Charlie 6 pounds and 17 inches, and Lily 4 pounds and 17 inches, and she told how she first saw us, how lovely and dear we were, and what she felt. I wished so much for it to be true, that I soon believed in this beautiful tale and replaced my heavy memories with it.
Mum often rocked me, wrapped like a little baby. I love these moments. Even now, when something bothers me, I sit with Mum, hold her hand, and understand that there’s nothing more dear than her scent, her kind smile, her caring gaze. Amazingly, no matter where I am, what I’m doing, I see Mum’s eyes before me. They may be joyful, sad, happy, worried, tired, or sparkling. But always loving! Mum looks at me with pride or concern… but never with indifference or reproach. I, or rather we all, try to be like our Mum. And we wish all children on earth to see such eyes in their mothers.
