The tears

hear Bill and Rosie in the kitchen downstairs loading up the dishwasher. My stomach rumbles, but they don’t offer me anything to eat, and I don’t expect them to.

I missed dinnertime.

I’ll have to sneak downstairs when they’re in bed and grab something from their pantry. They’ve started hiding stuff from me these past few weeks, but I know Rosie keeps some chocolate in her sewing tin.

They’ve already got a kid lined up to replace me, I heard them on the phone to the agency talking about it. I think he’s called Leo.

I hope he’s a better kid for them than I’ve been, and I hope he likes this place as much as I do.

The thought of leaving here makes me feel more upset than it should. I ball my hands into fists and choke back stupid tears that I don’t deserve.

I could’ve stayed if I was better.

I could’ve stayed if they hadn’t seen the bruises on my arms and thought I was into drugs or self-harm, or a load of other things that made them look at me in those ways I hate.

Pity and fear and dis