CHAPTER ONE
Muriel stood on the balcony of the first floor, her palms pressed flat against the cold metal railing. The fading light cast long shadows over the neighborhood below—decaying buildings, cracked sidewalks, and the faint hum of traffic in the distance. The air was heavy with the scent of gasoline and stale rain. The street, too tiny that while walking past each other, you could actually inhale the gut-wrenching odor of sweat oozing off each other’s bodies. She hated the place.
She tugged at the hem of her oversized sweatshirt, pulling it tighter around her body. Her dark, unkempt hair tangled in the wind, falling over her face like a curtain she couldn’t push aside. Her hazel eyes were distant, unfocused, staring out at nothing in particular. The world around her was fading, but her memories were sharp—too sharp. They pierced through the quiet like the thumping of a heartbeat. Sighing, she smiled faintly as she recalled the days when she stood in the rain after a bad day and prayed to God that it would wash out the day’s memories alone.
She thought of the nights spent alone in a room filled with the acrid smell of cheap liquor, the quiet voices of strangers slipping in and out of the apartment, and the laughter that always felt wrong. Her foster mother's slurred promises. Her stepfather's hands that never stayed where they should.
Muriel had learned early that home was a place to survive, not to live. She smiled again, taking her hands off the railings and rubbing her fingers against each other. The fragment of dust that had stuck to her fingers made the motion smooth. She inhaled it, closed her eyes, enjoying the smell. It was the only thing she liked about the place — especially the moldy smell of dust mixed with rain water. It smelt like clay.
The sound of her phone ringing snapped her back to the present. She glanced at the screen—Mrs. Lambert. She didn’t answer immediately. She’d heard this conversation before. “A new family,” the social worker always said. But the promises never felt real.
Muriel’s thumb brushed the green button, her heart tightening as the woman’s voice spilled from the receiver. “Muriel, it’s Mrs. Lambert. I have news. There’s a family who’s interested in you. They’re ready to sign the papers. I’ll take you to them tomorrow.” The words barely registered, her pulse pounding in her ears.
She tried to imagine what a “real” family might look like. What it might feel like to belong to someone, to not be just another ward of the system. But every attempt to picture a life like that slipped through her fingers.
Her past had taught her not to hope or trust. Searching herself, she felt nothing. The excitement she felt at her first adoption or the smile that lingered for too long on her lips. She had been stupid, believing in fairytales or happy ever after endings. Her friends from the orphanage had smiled happily at her, genuinely. They wished her good luck, making her feel lucky. She hated it all now. Hated it all. She stepped back from the balcony, the weight of the call sinking into her chest. It was always easier to stay in the shadows. She didn’t want to hope. But maybe—just maybe—this time could be different.
"Next week would be fine," she audibly said, and after a moment, added, "Mrs. Lambert."
“Huh?” Mrs. Lambert said after a long pause. When she summarized that Muriel was not going to say anything else, she reluctantly said, “Fine. I’ll let you know if they’re okay with that.”
Although she wasn’t married, the social worker loved it when you added Mrs. to her name instead of Miss. She didn’t understand it but still did it, because she liked doing something nice for the social worker. Sighing, she zeroed in on the environment. If Mrs. Lambert was right, this was going to be the last time she stepped foot in Hialeah Drive. The sight before her, was the memory she wanted to live with — she would try.
Sauntering back inside, she found her way to her room and slammed the door shut. This was where she found solitude — the forewalls of her room. If anyone could tell the story of her life perfectly well, these walls would.
Memories, jagged and unwelcome, flashed before her eyes: the arguments, the cold stares, the feeling of being invisible in a place that was supposed to be home.
She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, trying to push the memories aside. Next week, she would leave all of this behind. She didn’t know where she was going, but anywhere was better than here.
She imagined what life might be like in her new foster home—warm, quiet, perhaps even a place where she could finally find peace. A place where her name wouldn’t be shouted in anger or silence.
