Kayla

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I knew I was different from the other kids since the day I entered public school. I knew everyone else had a better life than me. They weren't neglected or hurt like me. I didn't want to tell myself that I was different, I hung on to the idea that I'm not separated from the others; I am like them. But I couldn't lie to myself like that, I knew I was different.

But I can't say I was without a home, I did have a house. I lived in the same foster home for years, I grew to know the others living there but I didn't like them. I knew the true definition of lonely, I was forced to grow up without a mother or father. I don't know my father at all, I never met him. And my mother, I've known for only a few years. She couldn't even take care of me as a toddler, I was too much for her to handle.

My mother was a whore. A prostitute. She probably doesn't even know who my father is, either. Teachers and other adults told me I shouldn't know what those words mean, but I do. That's all I hear other people say about her.

"A prostitute at sixteen."

"She was pregnant, she doesn't even care she has a daughter out there in the world."

"Who's the father?"

"How could any child grow up without a mother or father?"

"Poor Kayla."

I grew up to hear all these words, I do not know what to think of this woman who happens to be my mother. I wonder what life would be like for me, if I was born to a family that cares, and if I could live a normal life.

My teacher says I'm too mature for my age. I'm only twelve. I don't think anyone else at my age has so many worries in their life, as much as I do. They don't worry about growing up too fast. But for me, all I have are worries, and I'm forced to grow up fast.

My mother kept me for only a few years. I was constantly in and out of homes, because my mom did not have a proper house. She formally stayed at some beat up house, but it was in and out of strange men's homes for most of the time. I was sort of a burden to carry around with. She couldn't work if she always had to take care of me.

I'm so young, but I've seen and experienced so many bizarre things. And it's all because of my mother. I've seen everything. I've seen my mother do evil things in front of me. I've seen drug exchanges and deals in the same room as me. I've seen strange men walk into our home.

"Okay everyone, who wants to share their greatest memory with the class?" Mrs. Henry asked.

Our English teacher had asked us to write down our favorite, or best memory in our binders.

No one seemed to answer, so she decided to call on me. I felt people staring at me and I hate always feeling so nervous when I'm called on. I hated speaking; I always felt so small.

"Um, I don't have one." I said after a few awkward seconds.

"What do you mean you don't have one? Come on, you need to have at least something." She responded.

I just shrugged my shoulders. "I just don't."

She glared at me and I already knew she didn't favor me. I never had answers for her and barely participated. I was just so nervous and I wish she understood.

"Do you want me to lower your grade for lack of participation?" She walked over to my desk and whispered to me in a low voice.

I sighed and felt my cheeks get hot with embarrassment. I needed an answer for the stupid teacher, but my life sucks and I can't recall anything great about it. After a few seconds, I managed to gather up the courage to find something.

"I guess my greatest memory was when the cops came and found my mom and I. She was giving me drugs to make me go to sleep, then I was saved. That's the greatest thing I can remember." I said.

Mrs. Henry looked horrified at what I just said. I looked around at the other kids, and at the surprised looks they exchanged too. Some laughed, others were confused. I just did what I was asked, and I was honest.