The granite was friendly, warm and enduring, as constant as a home should be. I slid into it, merging as my flesh petrified and my mind focussed on my past of solitariness and isolation. I recalled the orphanage of dozens of children, of comings and goings, with different faces every few weeks and no constant. The staff had been formal but friendly, the food and accommodation adequate. Was that the home where I belonged?
Eventually, an elderly couple had taken me in. Decent enough people, they cared for me with sympathy but without love, and I paid for my accommodation by working morning, noon and night. Was that the home to which I belonged?
I remembered school days when I had been 'that motherless girl' to the teachers who treated me as if my situation had been my fault, and encouraged
