A few days later, the director called me into her office.

“Elena,” she said, smiling too brightly, “a family wants to adopt you. This is wonderful news.”

“And Mia?” I asked.

Her smile faltered just slightly.
“They’re not ready for two children. She’s still young. Another family will come for her. You’ll see each other someday.”

“I won’t go,” I said. “Not without her.”

“You don’t have a choice,” she replied gently. “You have to be brave.”

That word—brave—meant do as you’re told.

The day they took me away, Mia wrapped herself around my waist and screamed.
“Don’t go, Lena! Please! I’ll behave, I promise!”

I held her so tightly that a staff member had to pry her from my arms.

“I’ll find you,” I kept whispering. “I promise.”

She was still calling my name as they put me in the car.

That sound stayed with me for decades.

My adoptive family lived in another state. They weren’t cruel. They gave me food, clothes, and my own bed. They called me lucky.

They also hated talking about my past.