I learned early not to become attached to things.
A favorite blanket could disappear.
A stuffed animal could be left behind.
A family could say they loved you and then decide they couldn’t keep you.
At one shelter, when I was five, another child pointed at me and laughed because I was carrying everything I owned in a plastic grocery bag.
One of the adults looked at me and said,
“You’re like a stray kitten.”
Everyone laughed.
I didn’t.
I remembered those words for years.
Stray.
As if I had chosen to be homeless.
As if I had chosen not to belong anywhere.
Then I met Tom.
He was a few years older than me and had the kind of smile that made people feel safe.
Even when he was having a terrible day, he found something to laugh about.
We became friends first.
Then we became inseparable.
