When I got there, my things were already in the living room. What was my suitcase doing in a stranger’s house? Why hadn’t I got a chance to say goodbye to my mother? I sat down on the unfamiliar couch, and I sobbed. My experience in foster care wasn’t special, but it was scary. A new house, new people and a strange bed. Multiple strange beds, actually. Like most foster children, I didn’t just stay with one family.

The first woman I stayed with was unnervingly quiet, except when she wasn’t. She didn’t say anything until she was angry, and when she was angry, she’d say a whole lot. And to apologize, she’d give us sweets. My sister convinced me that she was trying to fatten us up, because she only liked to eat plump children. Us- I forgot to mention. The only not so terrible part of this whole affair was that I got to stay with my sister. She was all I had in the world.

The woman’s name was Katherine. We stayed with her for about 6 months. One day, my sister, Sam, found a dead bird in the yard and brought it into the house so we could have a proper funeral. Fifty year old women don’t particularly enjoy having dead animals in their living area. This was when Katherine decided that it would be best if we went to live with a different family. She was probably right, we never liked her much. I recall at one point, she shook me and told me to “pull myself together.” Okay crazy lady, I’m seven years old, tell me what affairs I need to get in order and I’ll get right on that.

The next family I lived with were more permanent, unfortunately. At first my sister and I were excited because these people had kids about our age! The excitement died down about 10 minutes after our arrival. Sure, these people were friendly but they were also very, very strange. They were just as much rednecks as they were classy and conservative, a confusing mix. Their favourite thing to do was hunt. The weird taxidermy in the basement, which was also where I slept, haunted me. There was a large black bear hanging on the wall and I swear, those marble eyes watched me wherever I went.

While the mother cooked and the father was out in the forest, their daughters sang, played piano, and did volunteer work. I chewed my nails and my sister picked her nose, you could see how we felt out of place. The children picked on my sister a lot, and this usually upset me. She’s Autistic, and maybe she didn’t understand the words being said to her, but I did. Once, one of the girls locked her in a closet, as a “game”. It was hard to explain our difficulties to the parents because they were convinced that their daughters were perfect angels.  Other foster children came and they went. My sister and I stayed in the same little room on the same little bunk bed.

Our story didn’t end the way that most do. In most cases, children get adopted, or just move out when they turn eighteen. But my sister and I got the unique opportunity to actually go home. After five years, our mother was deemed fit to raise us, once again. Moving home was a crazy experience, but that’s another story.

For a long time I was angry at the Ministry of Children, I was angry having to spend that many years away from my friends and family. Finally I realized that at the end of the day, it was a really good thing that I had these experiences. If I hadn’t, I might have gone my whole life without knowing how to do simple things, like brush my teeth or even shower. I’d describe it as tough love, but I really doubt those people felt any sort of affection for us.

They weren’t good experiences, but they were beneficial. When I got there, my suitcase was already in the living room. I look around at my family’s familiar, welcoming faces.  The couch was there, just as we’d left it. I smiled, we were finally home.