Casual Fate

Throughout my life, I’d always been the youngest. The youngest of five siblings, the youngest amongst twelve cousins and the youngest in my group of friends. Experience made me an expert on being with older people. I knew how to talk to them and I knew what to expect from them. However, I wasn’t at all used to children. In fact, I was not interested in them - at all. When everyone saw a cute baby, I just saw a baby. When others saw cute toddlers, I just saw toddlers. 

However, Mia was different. She looked about seven or eight years old and, the day I first saw her, she was stroking a street puppy. Her two ponytails, the pink dress she wore and the princess-like plastic heels in her feet reminded me of myself at her age. When I was a little girl, I loved to dress up as a princess, as a mermaid or as a superhero. As I walked to my work office, I smiled in her direction and stayed on my path. For years, I’d been working as the Community Manager of a well-known company and enjoyed every second of my work day. However, seeing that little girl made me recall the days in which I dreamt without worries and played all day. By that time, there was no such thing as taxes, complaining clients, bills to pay or bosses to please.

The next day, I saw the young girl at the exact same spot. There she was, sitting in the corner, playing with sticks. The view of her alarmed me. How could she be in the exact same corner? After all, it was 9 in the morning on a Tuesday and she was supposed to be at school. However, I tried not to think about it and continued walking through my usual route. After all, I was no one to give my opinion on the lives of others. 

The next day, she was still there. The clothes she had on were the exact same, with the only difference that they seemed to get dirtier and dirtier as the days went by. That morning, the temperature had dropped and the girl seemed to be suffering from the cold. This time, I could not stop myself from approaching her and asking if she needed any help. Nonetheless, the girl smiled at me gently and said she was fine. Despite the answer, I went back to my house, grabbed a sweater of mine and gave it to her. I also grabbed for her an apple and a bottle of water. As expected, I was late for my job. In any case, the girl’s expression of appreciation was worth more than any work schedule.

On the following day, when I saw her, I insisted on my questions. 

“Don’t you have a family, sweetie? Don’t you have parents?” I asked calmly.

“Can’t go back,” she answered quietly. Suddenly, tears started coming out of her eyes.

“Oh, no. Don't you cry. Are you lost? I can help you get back home.” I asked for her house’s address. When she did not respond, I also asked if she remembered the name of her school or what her neighbourhood was. However, she only continued to cry. When I suggested she stay at my place while I went to work, the girl seemed to instantly like the idea.

Looking back at that day, I’m not sure why I did what I did. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me to just call the police and let them handle the issue. All I knew was that I couldn’t see her in the street for days, suffering from the cold and probably hunger, too. I knew that, even if she was a kid, she was a stranger. Nevertheless, my intuition led me to take care of her. That day, I was late for work for the second time in the week. I decided that, before I did anything else, I had to show my new guest around and prepare her a meal.

For an entire week, the child said nothing except “thank you”. When I cooked breakfast, she thanked me. When I cooked lunch or dinner, she thanked me. When I asked if she needed anything, she responded with a “no, thank you”. Other than that, the girl was completely silent. When she was not drawing, she was watching television or petting my dog. Even though I did not have clothes of her size, I lent her some of my t-shirts in order to wash her own pink outfit. The drawings that she did made me recall my own self at that age again. When I was seven, I’d spent hours drawing, writing and playing with my toys. Even if I had nothing to do, my imagination was endless and I’d never get bored. 

On the seventh day, she confessed. We were quietly having dinner when she decided to speak up.

“I have a family but I don’t like them. I don’t want to get back”, she said simply. I felt my heart fall. She was not lost, then? My two main suppositions were that she was either lost or an orphan. Throughout the days, I had spent hours imagining the death of her parents. I theorized that, probably, they had passed away in a car accident. That would explain the trauma, the crying and the silence. Never had it crossed my mind that she could be escaping from her own house. 

“Why don’t you like them?” I questioned calmly.

“Dadda hits momma and dadda hits me. And momma hits me, too”, in a matter of seconds, the child bursted out crying. “And they tell me I’m stupid and they don’t let me draw. They tell me to study and I study, I do the homework. But I also want to draw”. 

Hearing her speak broke my heart. Even though I knew I couldn’t judge people I did not know, I despised her parents instantly. How could they hit her? How could they insult her and push her away from her passions? I could not understand how people like that could even consider parenting. In any case, even if I wanted to, I knew I couldn’t keep her. I knew that staying with her as if she were my own child would be kidnapping. 

I explained the situation to Mia the best that I could. I pointed out that, even if I liked her company, she couldn’t stay in my place forever. I insisted for her to tell me her house’s address and, even though she resisted at first, she ended up doing it. I was shocked when I found out that, actually, she lived across town. The seven-year-old kid had taken a train and a subway on her own to get away from her family, in spite of her age. 

The next day, I drove her to the address she had given me. During the ride, I couldn’t help but feel guilty. Somehow, I knew I was leading her to a place that didn’t at all make it happy. Even if she tried to hide her sad expression, I noted her sobbing and her glassy eyes that contained a million tears. Every intent to strike up a conversation was completely useless. I felt guilty. I really did. Still, what could I do? I seemed to have no other choice. I tried to convince myself that this was probably an exaggeration. Maybe, their parents were just stressed or something. This couldn’t at all justify any type of violent attitude but, at least, it would leave me at peace. 

The moment we arrived,  I parked and accompanied Mia to her house’s door. Before I did anything else, I wanted to have a conversation with their parents in order to know that the girl would be all right. However, when a middle-age woman opened the door, my heart dropped. I knew her. And suddenly, it struck me.

Seven years ago, when I was seventeen, I got pregnant. I was dumb, I did not took care of myself and my boyfriend was even dumber than me. In fact, as soon as he heard from my pregnancy, he ghosted me completely leaving no signs whatsoever. I knew, by that time, that I didn’t have mental, emotional or financial stability to bring up a child and decided to give my baby up for adoption. The child in my womb wasn’t to blame and I would do no abortion. However, I also knew that I could not be an ideal mother - after all, I was seventeen and immature. During the first month of my pregnancy, I made a deal with the woman that stood now in front of me. She was the one that decided to adopt my child. 

In any case, when the months went by and I regretted my decision, it was too late. By the sixth month, I was the one that wanted to bring my son or daughter up even if it meant saying goodbye to parties and my old friends. It was too late, though. The adoptive mother of my offspring would not accept my new posture and, when my daughter was born, I had to say goodbye. 

Quickly, everything seemed to make sense. This was the reason Mia looked so much alike to me. This was the reason I felt such an inexplicable connection with her despite my usual views on children. As soon as my mind clicked, I bursted out crying and hugged Mia. My arms were shaking, my whole body was shaking and, even if she was confused, my daughter hugged me back. 

Long story short, I live with Mia now. She is twelve years old and, at this exact moment, she’s placing her books in her backpack. The summer vacations are over and, today, she is starting elementary school in a new institution. It was not an easy process and there was definitely a lot of bureaucracy involved, but I don’t want to bore you with the details right now. The important thing is we are together and happy. Truth be told, there were four days that marked my existence: the day I found out about my pregnancy, the day I gave birth to my daughter, the day I saw Mia in the streets and the day I found out that Mia was my daughter.