Between Bruises & Blooms

I was five,

still small enough
to believe that grown-ups
always knew where children belonged.

Trust
wasn’t something I had learned.

It was something
I was born carrying.

Like breathing.

Like reaching
for the nearest hand.

They called it foster care.

I called it
the day the world
forgot my name.

My sister stood beside me.

My baby brother,
all new teeth
and curious hands,
did what babies do.

He bit.

The adults
called it a problem.

I called him

my brother.

They carried him
toward a waiting car.

I didn’t understand
paperwork,
placements,
or policies.

I only knew

someone was stealing
my family.

I tore my hand
from the one
I was told to trust.

Tiny feet
against pavement.

Little lungs
filled with panic.

“I WANT MY BROTHER!”

I screamed

until my throat
burned raw.

A stranger
lifted me
before I could reach him.

I kicked.

I cried.

I threw myself backward,

and when her nose
began to bleed,

for one heartbeat,

I felt powerful enough
to stop the car.

But blood
couldn’t stop
the engine.

I watched
my brother disappear

until he became

nothing more

than a memory
through a window.

Something inside me

left with him.

After that,

home became
a word
without an address.

One night,

my stomach
twisted itself
into sickness.

I stood outside
their bedroom door,

too afraid
to throw up,

too afraid
to ask
to use the bathroom.

Fear won.

Then sickness did.

Vomit
painted the wall.

The bookshelf.

The floor.

So did their anger.

They stripped away
my dirty clothes,

but not the shame.

Sent me back to bed

still smelling
of everything
my little body
couldn’t hold inside.

Children remember

strange things.

The colour
of the car
that took their brother.

The sound
of adults yelling
instead of comforting.

The way vomit dries
against skin.

The feeling

that asking for help

is dangerous.

People ask me
why trust
has always come
with trembling hands.

Because mine
was broken

before I learned
to tie my shoes.

Long before
I knew words like

trauma.

attachment.

loss.

I only knew

that people
who promised
to keep children safe

could also be
the ones
who taught them

how to be afraid.

Still—

the little girl
who chased
that car

never truly disappeared.

She grew.

She survived.

She learned

that family
is more than blood,

that kindness
can arrive late,

and that healing

does not erase

what happened.

It simply teaches

the child
who lost everything

that she was never

the one

who needed fixing.