Phoenix

137 Logan Drive. Search it up if you want. You’ll find a small, crooked house at the end of a quiet street where the sidewalks are cracked, and the grass always looks a little too dry, no matter how much Carla waters it. The paint on the porch rails is peeling, the mailbox leans to one side like it’s tired of standing, and the porch light flickers whenever it rains. It isn’t much to look at, but it’s home. My home. Not yours.

Not that it matters much.

Something I learned a long time ago is that people care about themselves first. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Survival makes people selfish sometimes. People worry about their own lives, their own problems, their own futures, and honestly, they should. Nobody else is going to carry your life for you. But some people care about themselves so much that they forget everyone around them exists at all. They leave. They disappear. They make promises and break them like it’s nothing.

And sometimes, if I’m being honest, I wonder if I’ve become a little like that too. Surviving not just life but all the memories too.

The strange thing about memory is that it never comes back the way you want it to. People act like memories are these neat little boxes, lined up in order, easy to unpack. Mine aren’t like that. Mine come in flashes. Pieces of things. Small fragments that feel sharp around the edges, like broken glass I keep cutting myself on. The first one was from 2004.

I was two.

I don’t remember much, only pieces. A white pickup truck sitting on the side of a dirt road, its tires thick with dried mud, the smell of heat rising off the pavement, and a man leaning out of the driver’s side window, smiling at me. His hair was dark orange, wild and curling at the ends, almost the same shade as mine. Back then, it was brighter, less tamed by age and stress. I remember the way the sunlight caught in his hair and how his eyes looked warm, like green glass catching fire. I don’t remember what he said, or even if he said anything at all. But somehow I knew he was my father. That’s the weird thing about being little. Sometimes you know things without understanding them.

I forgot his voice. I forgot his laugh. But I never forgot his face.

Then came 2005. I was three.

That memory is ice. Cold, unforgettable. A woman carried me into a building that smelled like bleach, paper, and old coffee. I remember pressing my face into her shoulder because her sweater was soft and warm, and for whatever reason, I felt safe there. Safer than anywhere else. Her hands rubbed circles on my back while she walked, and I remember thinking she smelled like lavender. It’s funny, the things your brain keeps.

She handed me to a woman behind a desk. I hated her immediately.

Her hands were cracked and dry, the kind of fingers that felt wrong against skin. Her wrinkled knuckles wrapped around my wrists while the warm hands disappeared. I remember reaching for the woman who carried me, stretching so hard my shoulders hurt, but she just stood there with tears in her eyes and then turned around and left.

Just like that. At three years old, I didn’t understand what abandonment was. I didn’t know words like foster care or custody, or legal placement. I just knew that someone who felt safe had let go of me. And I never saw her again.

2006.

At four years old. There was another baby. Another pair of tiny hands. The wrinkle-handed lady carried her in this time, wrapped in a pale yellow blanket that looked too thin for winter. I remember staring because she looked like me, even as a baby. Same pale skin. Same burnt orange hair. Same strange green eyes that were the exact color of jade.

Charlotte. My sister. I didn’t know her name then, but I knew she belonged to me somehow. Unlike other babies, there was no celebration when she arrived. No smiling parents. No balloons. No cameras.

There was just silence and unsaid words. And me wonderful why I felt so alone. That was the thing about places like that. Kids didn’t end up there because life was kind. They ended up there because life had cracked open somehow.

2007. I was five.

That was the year I learned what the word missing meant. I remember the flashing lights first. Blue and red painting streaks across the dark outside like broken fireworks. Police officers moving in and out of rooms, their badges shining under yellow hallway lights. Their voices were low, serious, the kind adults use when kids aren’t supposed to understand what’s happening. I sat in one of those plastic chairs by the office wall, swinging my legs because they didn’t reach the floor, watching papers being passed around.

Posters. Big white papers.

MISSING. I sounded the word out in my head because I’d seen it before in books. And then I heard them say it.

They were my parents. The woman with the lavender sweater. The man with orange curls. Gone.

Missing.

That was when I understood. Not fully, but enough.Enough to know they weren’t coming back. Enough to know nobody knew where they were. And that was somehow worse.

Because now I know dead is meant final. Death had answers. But the word “Missing” was like leaving a door open just enough to make you feel you could step inside the room. Even now, years later, I still hate that word. Because some part of me still wonders.

Where did they go? And why didn’t they take us? Those are the kinds of questions that stay with you. They settle into your bones and grow there, heavy and permanent. By fourteen, I’d learned to carry them. Some days better than others. And Tonight was one of the better ones.

Laughter bounced off the walls of our living room as Charlie slammed another Uno card down onto the carpet between us, nearly folding it in half. Carla groaned dramatically, throwing her head back against the couch while Charlie laughed so hard she nearly tipped over.

Our living room was small, cramped, and always smelled faintly like garlic bread because Carla cooked like she was feeding twenty people instead of three. The pale blue carpet beneath us was worn down in certain spots, flattened from years of game nights and movie marathons. A standing lamp in the corner cast a warm yellow glow over the room, making everything feel softer than it really was.

Sunday nights were always game nights.

Carla called it our “Us Time.” Phones away. TV off. Actual human interaction. Charlie and I acted annoyed every time she announced it, but secretly, I think we both loved it. Because when it was just us, sitting on the floor with cards spread everywhere and leftover dinner still cooling in the kitchen, things felt normal. Safe. Like we had always been a real family.

Carla squinted at her cards, her eyebrows pinched together in concentration. I could tell she was trying to figure out her next move, which made cheating against her ridiculously easy.

Charlie, on the other hand, was ruthless. Ten years old and absolutely vicious.

“Mom,” Charlie said between laughs, “you can’t put down red on blue.”

Carla frowned. “Why not?”

“Because that’s not how colors work.”

Carla threw her hands up. “It’s a card game. Colors should be flexible.”

I laughed despite myself, dropping my final card onto the pile. “Uno.”

Charlie glared. “You’re impossible.”

“I prefer talented.” I smirked back. Carla snorted. She and Charlie threw down two more cards.

“I win!” I said, placing my last card down.

They both scream in unison, “No!”

The game went on without me while I leaned back against the couch, watching them argue over rules Charlie had probably made up. It felt warm here. Comfortable. And for a little while, I forgot about school tomorrow. Forgot about the whispers. The stares. About the way people looked at me when they remembered I didn’t have “real” parents.

Carla won the round ten minutes later and celebrated like she’d won the lottery. Charlie obviously accused her of cheating. Carla accused Charlie of being dramatic, like she always is. She was right, of course, because a second later, Charlie started complaining. For a second, everything felt light.

Carla stood up. Her smile dropped a little as she made her way to the kitchen counter. Her shoulders tightened a little, and I knew immediately. Work stress. It was a sudden shift, but I knew she was thinking about something. Carla carried the leftover pasta into the kitchen, scraping noodles into plastic containers.

“Hey, listen, you two,” she said, not looking at us right away. “I’ve got to leave early tomorrow. Big meeting.”

Charlie groaned. Carla turned, giving us both a stern look. The serious one.

“And I mean it this time. I want you both up, dressed, and at school on time.”

My stomach tightened. That wasn’t random. She knew. Or at least suspected. The school had definitely said something. I looked down at the cards in my lap, tracing my thumb over the edge of a yellow seven.

“We’ll be on time,” I said.

Carla looked more tired than she was ten seconds ago. She worked harder than anyone I knew, and disappointing her felt like breaking something fragile. She nodded slowly, like she wanted to believe me.

“Good,” Carla said quietly. “Because I can’t keep fixing everything for you with the school.”

“Right…”