we shouldn't

one • welcome here

"Spencer Lynn Miller," a voice from behind the desk calls out.

I stand up off the chair, giving the secretary a smile and a little wave. "Stacy is here," she informs me. I nod and wander out the door, greeted by a familiar small black car.

Another fucking foster house.

I've been in the system since I was 8, at least that's what they tell me. Why was I put into the system you ask? Well, my parents died in a car accident. Unfortunately, I only remember bits and pieces of them and what they were like, but the photos help a little.

I have two siblings. A younger sister and brother, they're twins. We got separated due to absolutely no one wanting to take in three foster kids; I don't blame them.
I don't remember how old they are and every time I try calculating their age I get too frustrated and can never figure it out. The only thing I remember about them is their names and the day they came home after being born.

My foster home was stable until I turned 13, after that, they kicked me out because I was getting 'too difficult', and when you're a teenager in the system, no one wants you. So you get hauled from house to house. I've been in 10 different houses, some nicer than others. Some were so horrific that I try to block them out of my head. I'll admit, whenever I move to a new house I'm always terrified and don't ever know what to expect. I've learned not to trust anyone anymore, aside from Stacy.

I get into the car, sitting next to Stacy in the passenger seat.
Stacy is my social worker, she's always been considerate and caring. She knows me well, she has been my social worker since I was first put into the system. She's got brown hair and a friendly smile. She has kids of her own and they are all around my age, so Stacy understands my teenage brain well.

When you've moved around from house to house every couple of months, you don't even bother to make friends. I attempted that at first and my heart shattered every time I had to leave. So, I guess you could say I'm a pretty lonely person.

"So who to next?" I roll my eyes, buckling up.

"Maggie and Patrick. They have two kids but one has moved out already. How are you though?"

"Normal. I'm anxious," I shrug, staring out the window at the buildings passing by.

"You'll be okay, I've met Maggie already and she is very sweet," she gleams.

"Yeah well, what's her kid like?" Sometimes the foster parents are great but the kids are little pieces of shit, sometimes vice versa.

"I forget her name but she's seventeen. I have a good feeling about this house!" She pats my shoulder in an attempt to encourage me.

"You say that about every house," I roll my eyes with a fake laugh.

"Fair point, but it feels different this time," Stacy nods with a hopeful tone.

Soon enough we pull up to a small suburban house; It's an average-looking house, I've been in fancier and I've been in a whole lot worse. Stacy helps me grab my two bags and walks to the front door, softly knocking a couple of times before it opens.

"Hello, I'm Maggie," a woman with an exceptionally kind-hearted smile on her face greets us.
Her features are soft and warm, like someone you could talk to about anything.

"Hi. Spencer," I nod my head, introducing myself.

"Great meeting you Spencer. I'll show you to your room," she smiles, walking further into the house, down a tiny hall until she opens up a wooden door.
The room is small and crowded with a bunch of music equipment.