I don’t remember the day my mother abandoned me. I was still a baby—too young to form memories, too small to understand what was happening. All I know is what I was told later: she was young, overwhelmed, and didn’t want a child. So I was placed into foster care, handed over like an unfinished story, my life beginning with absence instead of arms.
For illustrative purposes only

Growing up, I learned how to adapt quickly. New houses, new faces, new rules. Some foster homes were kind, others merely tolerable, but none felt permanent. I learned not to get attached, not to ask for too much, and not to expect anyone to stay. By the time I was old enough to understand what abandonment really meant, it had already woven itself into who I was. I carried it quietly, like a bruise that never fully healed.

Still, I survived. I worked hard. I stayed out of trouble. I learned to rely on myself. Love, to me, felt conditional—something you earned, something that could disappear without warning.