Empty Promises

‘Nineteen, ninety-five,’ the day on the back of the photograph of five-year-old me staring back at me with sad blue eyes. Growing up as a child I thought myself rather ugly with my messy blond hair that didn’t want to behave, and freckles splashed across my face. I remember the date on the back of the photograph written in my father’s handwriting as if it was yesterday.

“We promise that we will be right back to come to get you guys,” my father promised. It won’t be the first empty promise my parents make to the three of us; my younger sister by a year, that had dark hair and dark brown eyes like my father, myself that looked like my mother, only she had dark green eyes, and my brother that was a year older than me that also looked like my father.

I guess that they would have said anything to not hear their three children cry as they walk away, leaving us behind at a children’s home. Being a parent myself now, I realize that perhaps when mine made the promise that they believed themselves, but then again, they made the same promise two years prior to the date on the back of the photograph when they were forced to give us up into foster care. Five-year-old me didn’t understand what we did wrong at the foster care but there we were, my father, taking photos of us right before his empty promises. Thinking back on it now one would think that someone that can afford a camera back then should be capable of feeding their children, right? 

My five-year-old self did not know then that my parents have been divorced for two years already, my father was not able to make my greedy mother happy.

Once my parents left with a drop of tear in their eyes my brother got taken away as the house only catered for girls but we were told not to worry as he will be in a house not so far away and we will see each other every day, only we did not see each other every day.

A woman that looked about the same age as my mother, her hair short and curly, wearing thick glasses over her hazel brown eyes that made her look friendly and trustworthy enough, took us by our little hands.

“Because it is early in the day the other girls are still at school but while we wait for them I thought you two might like some hot dogs?” she asked.

Five-year-old me got excited at the thought of eating hot dogs. It is not that I never had a hot dog before then it was just that I remember being really hungry. 

My joy was slapped away halfway through my hotdog because I messed tomato sauce on my dress and arriving with no clothes of our own meant that we still have to take to the clothing bank to have clothes fitted; three sets for day wear, one jersey as it is still summer, two nightgowns, three sets of panties, two pairs of socks and no shoes as I was wearing a pair and the little ones only got one pair.

With my burning red face, I was dragged to the bathroom where my shirt was violently pulled over my head, leaving me standing there while the domestic worker was ordered to go look for a shirt from one of the other girls' closets that would fit me.

While I was waiting my sister came into the bathroom to show the house mother that she wet herself. Watching the house mother yank her pants down and hitting her on her rear end made me cry out, “leave her alone!”

From that day forward I always had to take my sister's punishment, but I didn’t mind as older sisters are supposed to protect their younger ones.

Once dressed in clean clothes we were walked over to the clothing bank to fit some clothes and on our way back to the house the school busses filled with kids entered through the gates. Happy children got off the busses and ran in different directions to the houses they stay in.

It was at that moment that I told myself that I will never be happy there; why should I, my mommy and daddy will be back shortly and then we will leave. I could not wait to tell my mother that the lady slapped me and spanked both my sisters and my rear ends. Only I never got to tell my mommy that day, or the next, or the one after that. It's been months and I was just about to give up on ever seeing my mother and father when one Saturday afternoon like every other Saturday afternoon that we were all made to stay in the homes for two hours, a not arived with my sister and my name on it. We got escorted by the lady that brought the note to a hall on the grounds of the children's home and there was my father. My brother was already sitting at the table that had drinks and sweets on them. My sister and I ran as fast as we could and flung ourselves into my father's arms.

“Where is mommy?” I wanted to know, looking around at all the other tables; parents and children sitting for a two-hour visit.

My father quickly distracted us with the treats on the table that he had to buy himself and before we knew it, time was up.

“I promise you that Monday afternoon I will meet you at the gate. Do you think you guys can manage to meet me at the gate?” my father asked in a hushed voice, explaining that he managed to get a flat across from the children's home and that he will come pass every day after work, just before five.

Monday came and the three of us played near the gate of the children's home, waiting for our father to keep his promise. Much to our surprise, there he was. A quick hello and a sweet for each of us, off he went. This carried on for some time until the children home told him that it is not fair to other parents and they can not have all the parents visiting at the gate as it puts the children in danger. The years went by and we could go to my father every school holiday where he would leave us alone at home to go work without the children's home knowing that he is leaving us alone for such long periods of time but we were not going to tell. I saw my mother all in all about four times in the twelve years I grew up in the children's home and at the age of eighteen, I left the children's home. Even though I was worried about leaving my sister behind she most defiantly was not. She was happier in the children's home, mostly I suppose because I was the one that always had to take her punishment. Off I went to make my own mistakes.

I put the photo of five-year-old me aside to look for the photo I was searching for in the first place.

Worried that I have lost the only photo of my daughter I turn the box of memories over and spread the contents out. “Thank goodness,” I sigh in relief, picking the photo up from the floor and looking at my split image of a daughter.

The first mistake I made was to get myself pregnant. No matter how hard I tried to have a proper income by the time my child was born I just could not manage. My beautiful daughter was born and I continued to struggle for five years before I caved and sought help. Seeking help ended me on the steps of social workers that did not hesitate to place my daughter in a children's home shortly after her fifth birthday. I had a phone, not a good one but still a phone, and on my phone was a photo of her fifth birthday holding the teddy bear I got from a charity basket. The day I went with the social workers to drop my daughter off at the children's home I promised her that I will visit her as soon as they allow me, knowing that there is a grace period that I won't be allowed to see her. I was relieved that the children's home was well set up and for my daughter, I am sure it looked like nothing more than a day at kindergarten. I watch my daughter ran off to the nearest group of playing children. It was just after lunch and I was told that the social worker will not be dropping me anywhere, that I had to find my own way home.

“I don’t have any money for bus fare,” I protest. The social worker sigh and gave me enough money for the fair. On my way to the nearest bus stop, I walked past a Photo printing shop and I don’t know why but something pressed on me to have at least one photo printed of my daughter. The cost to print the photo from my phone of my daughter holding the teddy on her fifth birthday is the same amount as the bus fare that the social worker gave me. It is going to be a five-hour walk home, I thought to myself as I went ahead and had the photo printed. Even though I regretted printing the photo by the time I got home, exhausted, I don’t regret it today. 

Today was the first day I saw my little five-year-old after six months. Over the past six months, it has been easier for me to work double shifts without having to worry if my daughter is safe, even though I miss her terribly and pray every night that she does not get abused by her house mother and the older kids like I was. It is a short walk to the children's home from the nearest bus stop and on my way there I got mugged. I knew that I am going to have to walk home again after being robbed of my money and my phone with the photo of my daughter on it but I was not going to think about that now. I was sad that I won't be able to buy her any sweets from the tuck shop but my excitement to see my little girl made me not care about any of that.

Today was much harder than the first day I left her behind, today she actually cried. I suppose today she knows that mommy is not tucking her into bed, her warm bed that I can not yet provide.

“You be a good girl and mommy will see you next week this time, I promise,” I told her as a tried to wipe her tears away while my own runs freely down my face, not helping the situation. I know that I could have told her that I will be right back but I refused to make empty promises, knowing that it will just make her lose her trust in me. Her house mother brought her teddy into the visiting room, “look who I have. Teddy misses you and wants you to come play.” I smile at the teddy, the one I got her, relieved that she got to keep it, remembering when I was a child we were not allowed to keep any toys that were given to us.

Walking home today was tough as expected but as soon as I got home, instead of falling down on my makeshift bed to catch my breath I just had to look for my daughter’s photo, the only one I have of her right now. I pick up the contents of the box after finding the photo I was looking for. After giving another look at five-year-old me, I compare the two photos; my sad eyes with no smile and that of my daughter that is happy and bright. “I promise you my little angel; I am not my parents. I will tuck you into your very own bed one day soon.”