One of the few things I miss about being with my foster mom Maria was the way she held me when I cried.
Whenever I get home to the farmhouse from school crying, she would drop everything that she was doing and would rush to my side with arms wide open. I could still remember how her clothes smelled: like laundry soap and cinnamon and a mother’s love. I’d burrow my face in her shoulders and cry my eyes out. She would just hug me, stroke my back and listen to my sobbing. She’d let me pour it all out, and when I was done, she would kneel in front of me and ask what happened. I’d tell her that the bullies at school were teasing me, calling me names and hating on me because I did not have real parents.
She would wipe the last few tears in my eyes and look into me. She’d say that I have a rea
