The train tracks were rubbing against the wheels, as I zoomed at top speed to London with my new Foster Parents.
Mr. and Mrs. Philips, my temporary foster parents, were sitting beside me. Mr. Philips smelt like cigars, and freshly cut pine trees, on the other hand, Mrs. Philips smelt like fine wine, and expensive perf￼ume.
It was obvious that Mrs. Philips was astoundingly younger than Mr. Philips. I personally believe she married him for his riches, but I shall never say it aloud
I was told I was to tend to the children at all times, and prepare the table at breakfast and supper. I was not disappointed, or shocked, for I was used to being used as help.
On the long journey to their estate, my eyes began to wander around the train, and before I knew it, I saw a mother and her son, giggling and hugging each other.
They appeared to love one another. As a young child, I was uncertain of what the word love truly ment, for I had never been loved.
My mother abandoned me at birth and left me on the concrete steps of the RedRoad Orphanage, and I had lived there for 6 years of my life until my first foster parents adopted me. They were extremely abusive, and I did not reside with them for long.
As time went on, I soon learned I should never expect to be loved, or learn to love. It would be a waste of heartache and I could not risk being weak in front of others.
I looked out the train window, passed Mrs. Philips, and saw that we had almost reached our destination. I gathered myself and was prepared to make a smooth, and delicate exit off the train when all of a sudden the vehicle came to a stop.
TO BE CONTINUED...