𝑨𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒂 𝑫𝒐𝒆
𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐲, 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲...
𝐈 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐕 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐟, 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐬, 𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲—𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐡𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭—𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐕. 𝐄𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐳𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐬𝐲𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐥? 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐰, 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡.
𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟-𝐭𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐜; 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐈‘𝐦 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐃𝐫. 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐩 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞. 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭. 𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲, 𝐈‘𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐛𝐮𝐲 𝐢𝐭, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐭, 𝐈‘𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭. 𝐎𝐡 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭, 𝐚𝐦 𝐈 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠? 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧‘𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐈‘𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐤𝐢𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬. 𝐓𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦, 𝐈‘𝐦 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟-𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐧𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧‘𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐭. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞.
𝐈‘𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐟𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬, 𝐬𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞. “𝐖𝐡𝐲‘𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝?” “𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲.” 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧‘𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞. 𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐧𝐨 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡.
𝐈‘𝐦 𝐚𝐧 𝐀𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐚 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬. 𝐈𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧‘𝐭 𝐢𝐭? 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞. 𝐌𝐲 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬, 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭‘𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧, 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐤. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞. 𝐌𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐦 𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐝... 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧‘𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐭. 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡, 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞, 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐣𝐨𝐛, 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 his mind 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧. 𝐇𝐞‘𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐱, 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐤 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐰𝐞’𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦, 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠.
𝐍𝐨𝐰, 𝐈‘𝐦 seventeen 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 eighteen 𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬. 𝐈‘𝐦 𝐬𝐨 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝, 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐤. 𝐈 𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐰.....
As the phone buzzed, I picked it up and smiled. “Hey, kid! How’s it going, Malik?” I said, my voice softening as I spoke to my little brother.
“I’m okay, Amara. The family I’m with now is cool. It’s way better than the last one. The kids here don’t get yelled at all the time, and they even let me call you whenever I want,” Malik said. I could hear the smile in his voice, even though I couldn’t see it.
“That’s good, but don’t get too comfortable. Things can change fast. What do I always say?” I warned him, trying to keep the reality check sharp.
“I know, I know—nothing good lasts forever,” Malik replied, his voice a little quieter now but still with that hopeful edge.
It sounds harsh, I know. But Malik needs to understand the truth. Things don’t get better for people like us. We’ve been the forgotten ones for as long as I can remember. After losing our parents and living with people who couldn’t even care for us, I don’t want him thinking a happy ending’s just around the corner.
“So, how’s the Harrison family treating you?” Malik asked, shifting the topic. “I know you’ve only been there a few days, but what’s it like?”
“It’s okay, I guess. They’ve got a daughter, Tasha, but she’s super distant. I don’t really care, though. Her attitude is... a little stank.” I rolled my eyes, not really feeling like being diplomatic.
“I mean, Amara, you can be stank too,” Malik teased.
“Yeah, well, I’ve got a good reason. She’s got everything—parents, a home—what’s her problem?” I replied, frustrated. “What’s she got to be so mean about?”
“You never know, but what about the parents? Do they seem cool? I know the last ones were rough on you,” Malik asked, his tone softening.
“Like I said, I’m not getting comfortable. I’m just counting down the months. I don’t really care about these people.”
“Amara... at least try to get to know them. For me?” Malik’s voice was hopeful.
“Fine. Only for you. But the second I feel their attitudes, I’m going mute again,” I said, half-joking, half-serious.
After my mom’s accident and my dad’s psychotic breakdown, I went mute for a while. I shut everyone out, not speaking to anyone for years. I saw a lot but never said a word. It made me feel safe, even though I talk a little now. Some things, though, I still keep locked away.
“Yay, that makes me happy!” Malik’s voice lit up.
“Good. Now, get your butt in bed, little man,” I said with a grin.
“Whatever,” Malik muttered before hanging up. His voice always made my day, no matter how many days, months, or years passed without us talking. We found each other when we could.
Suddenly, I noticed Mrs. Harrison peeking through the door, her figure casting a shadow on the floor.
“Um, hello?” I said, confused.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said, sounding rushed, almost irritated. “But just so you know, we only allow kids to be on the phone for an hour. I’ve heard you talking for two. Please be mindful of that next time.”
“I was just talking to my brother, we got a little carried—”
“It doesn’t matter. Just keep it in mind next time,” she cut me off, her tone sharp.
“Goodnight,” she added, closing the door a little too abruptly.
“What the—” I muttered under my breath.
Once again, I’ve ended up in some weirdos’ home. But something about the Harrisons doesn’t sit right with me. At first, they seemed so eager to show me off in front of my social worker, Ms. Emma. Now, they’re distant. I even heard them laughing downstairs, watching a movie—without asking me to join.
Maybe Malik’s right. I tend to write people off before they can do it to me. It’s my coping mechanism to cut them off before they can cut me. But this time, he asked me to give them a chance. So, I will for him. But I don’t know how long I can keep pretending everything’s fine.
