My name’s Anna, and the first thing you should know about me is that I didn’t grow up with the kind of childhood people put in photo albums.
Seven girls to a room. Thin blankets. Loud nights. The constant feeling that you were temporary—like the world could pick you up and move you without warning. Some girls got adopted. Some aged out. But me and Lila? We stayed.
We weren’t best friends because we carefully chose each other. We were best friends because we survived each other. Because when you’re a kid with nothing, loyalty isn’t cute—it’s oxygen.
We used to whisper at night about the families we’d have someday. The kind we’d seen in movies. Warm kitchens. Someone waiting for you. Someone who didn’t leave.