The time difference between San Diego and New York City is three hours, but by the time we get off the plane at San Diego International Airport it feels like longer.
Mike doesn't have time for jet lag. The moment we appear at arrivals it's impossible not to spot him, jumping and waving, bouncing like a grasshopper, and then he runs towards us, almost the way I did when I saw Alex come through the first time. I just about have time to let go of my suitcase and stop walking before his frame is flung at me. Not heavy, of course, but enough to take me by surprise and send me staggering, laughing as he squeezes. "Welcome home!"
"Good to see you too, Moik," I chuckle. "Jesus, I was only gone a day!"
"Almost two days, really," he reasons, and then steps away from me and hugs Jaime instead.
Mom and Dad are far less virulent in their greetings and embrace us both with far more gentle arms, and then Mike wraps an arm around my shoulders as we head out of the airport.
"How was your trip, boys?" Mom asks, and we both scoff and groan, raising our eyes to the ceiling.
"Incredible," I say. "It was just...I don't have words."
"The musical blew us away," Jaime babbles excitedly. "It was just...phenomenal. Wow."
"So worth the trip," I agree. "And the city itself was beautiful. There was snow everywhere. Snow! When do we ever get snow down here?"
"Once in a blue moon," Dad nods.
"We did all the classic tourist things," Jaime continues. "Very typical. We went to Chinatown, Times Square, Central Park, the MET, Rockefeller Centre..."
"Sounds like you had quite a trip," Mom smiles as she leads us to the car. It's fairly chilly out - but considering we just came from New York, where it snowed both days and the temperature was far lower than here, I can't complain that much. "Did you take lots of pictures?"
"Of course!" I exclaim as Mike opens the trunk for us and we lift our bags in. "Jaime's are really aesthetic. Mine are tourist pictures."
Once in the car, Mike doesn't waste a second in grilling us about the trip, a train of never-ending questions emerging from his mouth as Mom navigates out of the airport and joins the interstate. Between us, Jaime and I leave no question open ended, filling in every detail we can; but really, everything that happened in New York can never be anyone else's memories. They're ours. It's private. Being there was a little ethereal and odd and not like reality at all, and that feeling, that glorious feeling, can only ever be ours.
In my heart, Jaime has settled into his own little compartment, and nobody else is getting in.
* * * * *
"When will your folks be here?"
"Any minute," Jaime sighs, yawning, and Mike sags.
"I'm actually going to miss you."
Jaime laughs. "For real?"
"Yeah. This was such an awesome Christmas, dude. Thank you for my Good Charlotte socks, I think they were the one item of merch I didn't have."
"You're welcome," he smiles, rearranging his limbs beneath him as he sits curled up on the sofa. Both of us are extremely jet lagged and battling to stay awake to stop our body clocks becoming totally fucked, which is why I'm now rapidly drinking my second cup of coffee as I sit on the window sill of the living room swinging my legs.
"I'm going to miss you too," I pipe up, smiling from behind my mug, and Jaime scoffs.
"I should freakin' well hope so."
His new found confidence makes me laugh again as I rub my eyes. "Will you miss me?"
"Terribly, my darling. Although I have a cat, which will ease the pain."
"Do you think Rolly missed you?"
"Well, the house sitter should have been feeding him, so he won't be too aggrieved. But he is partial to human company, so he might be a little pissed at all of us for abandoning him."
"Oh, you have a cat?" Dad asks from his armchair, doing the crossword as usual. "How nice. What's it called again?"
"Rolly. He's fat and cute."
"Ah," Dad nods in understanding, returning to the crossword. "Yes. Like me."
Mike snorts as he tries to take a drink of his orange juice and then seems to choke slightly as the drink goes down the wrong way. After a second he erupts into a coughing fit that is bred with a choking laugh, and he hits his chest repeatedly, trying to de-suffocate himself. He swallows eventually and blinks at me with those wide, innocent eyes as I raise an eyebrow, and then smiles. "Wrong pipe," he splutters. "Sorry."
"We had a cat once," Mom says as she arrives in the living room. She only got home from work a few hours ago before she drove down to the airport to collect us, and she's looking almost as tired as me.
"Called Tabitha, right?" Jaime pipes up, and my jaw drops.
"Wh- how did you remember that? That's impressive."
Jaime shrugs and brushes imaginary dust off his shoulders, and Mom chuckles fondly as she ruffles his hair. She seems to be just about to head into the kitchen when the doorbell goes off, and my heart suddenly plummets. Sarah and Andrew are here.
It's silly, really - he lives literally about fifteen minutes away, and I'll probably see him after New Year whether it's at his house or whilst we're working or it's at mine or we see a film or whatever...but I've had a taste now. I've had a taste of his constant proximity and I don't feel ready for it to be taken away yet. It's daft; but I guess you do get daft, when you love someone.
"I'll get it," I say, and go to open the door. Sure enough, it's Sarah and Andrew, looking suitably exhausted from the long journey back from Washington. I doubt they've even been home yet - Sarah is dressed up in a snowflake themed sweater and leggings, and Andrew doesn't look much different; slightly messy and dishevelled, mismatching socks peeking out above his shoes. But they still smile as broadly as ever, speak in voices just as chirpy. "Hey!"
"Hello honey!" Sarah bubbles as I wrap my arms around her for a moment, and she smells lovely and feels warm even thought it's cold out...huh. Turns out I've actually kind of missed Sarah these past few weeks.
And then Andrew does the same, rocking me slightly as he hugs me, patting my shoulder, and then I show them inside and shut the door behind them as they walk into the living room. Before I've followed them in, I can hear greetings going down; oddly, I'm a little nervous. This is the first time my parents and Jaime's parents are meeting, and I really want them to like Sarah and Andrew as much as I do.
"Hello chick," Sarah says warmly as I follow them into the living room, where Jaime has just thrown himself at her, smiling widely, swaying from side to side in her arms, burying his face in her shoulder as she strokes his hair.
"Hey."
"Am I obsolete?" Andrew asks, feigning hurt, and Jaime scoffs as he pulls away from Sarah and throws himself at Andrew instead.
"Of course not."
It's cute, the way he greets them. For a moment I remember that Jaime probably hasn't spent much more than day away from both of them for...God knows how long. For someone with what was clearly once utterly crippling anxiety, being apart form them for so long must have been hard on some level.
But he's very happy to see them now, and that's all I care about.
"Hey Sarah," Mike smiles, next in line for greetings and hugging her too, following up with the same for Andrew, and Sarah laughs.
"Goodness gracious. If you kids keep hugging us I'm never going to meet your own parents. Vivian, isn't it?"
Finally, Sarah manages to approach Mom without any more teenagers throwing themselves in her direction, and Mom smiles, sticking out her hand for Sarah to shake. "That's right. It's nice to finally meet you both, I've heard many things about you."
"Oh, don't worry," Andrew dismisses. "They can't all be true. Unless it's about my inability to find matching socks. That's definitely true. I'm not even wearing a pair right now, I mean -"
"Andrew," Sarah silences him, and Dad chuckles as he gets to his feet, setting the folded paper down and shaking Andrew's hand.
"Nothing to be ashamed of. I have the same issue now and then. Victor Fuentes."
"Oh my!" Andrew laughs. "Must get confusing, two Victor's under one roof."
"Only when Mom's mad," Mike explains. "If she yells Victor both of them go running with their tails between their legs."
"All the more reason not to make me mad," Mom says lowly, raising an eyebrow at Mike, who gives her his most innocent smile.
After Dad shakes Sarah's hand and Mom shake's Andrews, Sarah opens her handbag and dips into it before producing a small but heavy looking gift bag, completed with a gold bow on the front, and passes it over to Mom; and I've never actually seen her look quite so taken aback. She actually jars for a moment, frozen a little, and then scoffs and smiles, shaking her head. "Oh goodness gracious. You never did."
"Why ever not?" Sarah shrugs, handing over the present. "You've looked after my son all Christmas, the least I can do is offer you a little thank you."
"Oh, it was no trouble," Mom dismisses, smiling at Jaime. "Actually, it was a pleasure. He taught me to bake."
"And he helped me with the crossword," Dad pipes up proudly. I shoot Jaime a private glance, and he smiles as he blushes.
"And he took me to New York," I say, stepping away from the doorway and actually entering the room. "It's really you guys we should be thanking for letting us have him."
"If you love him that much, keep him," Andrew says. "We can spend more money on the house. Get the bathroom re-plastered."
"Rude!" Jaime exclaims, shoving him slightly, and Andrew laughs as he wraps an arm around his shoulders.
"Only kidding, Himes. If you were to live here, who would make us cookies? I'm not sure I trust my wife to make them quite as good as yours."
"Flattering."
"So how was your Christmas, everyone?" Sarah asks, turning to the room, and I sigh, remembering everything we've done the past few weeks.
"Awesome," I say wistfully, staring into space. Mom grins.
"I admit, it was one of the greatest. Although I do wish I'd had some more time off work..."
"You haven't worked over Christmas, have you?" Andrew frowns, seemingly genuinely concerned, hands slipping into his jeans pockets. He's the type of person filled to the brim with empathy for everyone. They may not be related, but I certainly see him in Jaime.
"I had Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Boxing Day and yesterday off," she explains. "Back today. Only a half day, mind you. I would have had until after New Year at my old job, but..."
"What was it you did?"
"I was a business secretary. Not a dream but it was fine, I was there for a long time, but...I got too expensive to keep. The company started slipping so I got laid off."
"That's ass," Sarah says indelicately, and Dad laughs bitterly.
"Couldn't have put it better myself, Sarah."
"So I'm just doing some interim stuff now," Mom continues. "Working in a hotel at the moment...hours are mad and it's totally unbearable but it'll do for now. It's just tiding over, isn't it?"
"Quite..." Sarah trails off, frowning. "Did Vic say you had an English literature degree?"
"I do, yes. Shame I'm not using it."
"Just because...well, I work in a publishing agency. I don't know if there are any vacancies going at the moment, but if I hear about anything coming up I'd be happy to put in a word for you."
Mom doesn't control the gape - I don't think she can. Her eyebrows fly up, and slowly, she smiles, baffled. "Would you really?"
"Of course. Hell, I somehow managed to get a job in publishing without any qualifications so with your degree and all your experience, I should think you wouldn't have a problem. Actually, I'll mention you anyway. There's every chance big old boss guy would want to make a position for you."
"I..." Mom stutters, a hand on her chest, and she shakes her head before snapping out of her trance. "Good lord, you've been in my house five minutes and you're already my favourite person."
"Hey," Dad pouts, but Mom ignores him and puts a hand over her mouth as Sarah shrugs.
"No point working in a hotel when there are bigger pastures for you. Why waste a degree?"
"Good point," Mom nods, and then exhales sharply, pulling herself together. "My goodness, that was an unexpected highlight."
"There's been a lot of them this Christmas," Jaime smiles, shooting me a glance, and we smile a private smile at each other, knowing. Thinking about New York, and what we said to each other in the hotel room.
But for now, I'm only half thinking about that - it's only a glimmer, but if there was an opening at that publishing agency...my God, Sarah might save us all. And my heart is skipping a little, right now, and my head is telling it to try not to get too overjoyed.
They can't stay talking forever - after all, Rolly will be all alone by this point, the house sitter having gone home, and Jaime's folks are clearly desperate to hear all about his trip. It's Andrew who sets off with the; "well, probably about time to get going," and then my heart stops skipping and I feel instantly melancholy, missing Jaime already.
"Are your things upstairs, love?" Sarah asks, and he nods.
"Yeah. I'll go and fetch them."
He starts for the stairs, but is stopped by Sarah before he can leave the room. "Have you packed your toothbrush?"
"Yes."
"Got all your clothes?"
"Yep."
"You didn't leave anything in New York, did you?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Did you remember everyone's presents?"
"Oh my God!" Jaime exclaims, laughing, and returns to plant a small kiss on her cheek. "Mom, I haven't forgotten anything. I'll be down in a minute."
And there's a moment of silence as he disappears, feet thudding up the stairs, and Sarah, for the first time since I've known her, is frozen and speechless. She stares after where he disappeared, mouth agape, and then one hand goes to it. And nobody says anything, because we all heard it too.
"He..." she murmurs, stammering, and turns to Andrew. "He- he just - he called me Mom."
"Yeah," Andrew says softly, and he's speechless too. Mike and I just grin at each other, and Sarah hiccups a little, suddenly tearful, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
"He called me Mom," she repeats, swallowing, and squeaks a little, starting to cry.
The sight of Sarah, calm and collected Sarah, in tears in my front room, sets me into action, and whilst Andrew embraces her and strokes her hair I run up to her side and put a hand on her shoulder; but she isn't crying in sadness. She's crying in overwhelming delight, and Andrew is smiling too. And he did call her Mom; the first time it's ever happened.
"Oh my word," she babbles, pulling away from Andrew and rubbing her eyes, and she puts and arm around my shoulders as I continue my own attempt at comfort. "Sorry."
"No problem, dear," Mom says gently, and Sarah swallows, shaking her head.
"All that brandy over Christmas," she laughs, sniffing and clearing her throat, stemming her own tears. "Made me soft. Oh, Vic," she starts, squeezing my shoulder and adjusting my hat on my head. "I don't know what you're doing to my son, but keep doing it. I like it."
It doesn't take Jaime any longer than two minutes to reappear with his bags, seemingly oblivious to that perfectly charming slip of the tongue, and then we say our goodbyes. The parents farewell among themselves after their brief greeting, and Mike is the first to say goodbye to Jaime, hugging him like he's already his brother, and my heart swells at that. And then Jaime turns to me and hugs me too, but tighter than with everyone else.
"Thank you for my Christmas," he mumbles in my ear. "It was just beautiful."
"It was my pleasure," I tell him softly, and when we pull back we don't step away very far, and I put my hands on the back of his neck and pull him in to kiss him. The taste and the feeling in my chest at the contact makes me think of New York just yesterday, and the memory is so strong and potent I actually smile into the kiss. "I love you."
"I love you too," he says, matching the volume of my voice, and then takes a deep breath. "Hey...I left you something. Under your pillow. Just...when you have time."
Confused, I tilt my head - but his eyes are telling me not to ask right now, just take a check later, so I don't query it.
Once everyone's goodbyes are said, Sarah, Andrew and Jaime are shown out of the house. I sit on the wall at the bottom of the garden as they drive away and wave, blowing Jaime a kiss through the car window, and he laughs and blows one back. I stay on the wall long after the car disappears round the corner - the New Year is looming...but that's fine. With his hand in mine it doesn't feel too intimidating.
In the tree across the road, I see a rustling of leaves and a bird takes flight. It looks like a swallow - wings flapping rapidly, movement erratic and sharp. It flies over the houses, and I follow where it goes, and I smile.
* * * * *
It isn't until I go to bed that night that I remember to check under my pillow. It's there - I don't know what I expected, but I didn't think it was going to be an envelope; and when I open it, there are several pages of folded paper inside, handwriting covering both sides, sloping downwards slightly, and I frown. A letter? Why has he left me a letter?
With the door shut and the curtains drawn, I switch on the reading light by the bed, sit down on the edge of it, unfold the letter and begin to read.
Dear Vic,
I'm writing this in our New York hotel room right now, so I apologise in advance for the misspellings and poorly formed sentences. You're sleeping behind me; snoring a little, but that's fine. It's about time I told you everything.
Over Christmas, I've fallen in love with you and your family. I know you always say your life is less than perfect - I know that your family struggles, and you and Mike both have chronic illnesses, and that's hard. But in spite of it all, all of you, you smile, you laugh. There is so much love between you, and I can feel the result of so many years as a unit manifesting in that way. I don't have all those years of friendship and familiarity - I'll admit, part of me is jealous, but I'm mostly thrilled and overwhelmingly grateful that you trust me and care about me enough to let me become a part of that.
I have been quiet for a long time about the things that lie in my past. It's taken a lot of guts to write this - but I feel that since you've let me into your family, I should let you into mine.
The reason I'm writing a letter and not telling you face to face is down to several reasons. The story is long, for one thing - but it's also hard to tell. I'm not ashamed to tell it. The things in my past aren't shameful; at least, most of them aren't. I have learnt that. But it takes a lot out of me still, and on paper...it all makes a bit more sense. And in any case, I fear that if I were to say it all aloud I'd forget things and miss stuff, and there are so many people, so many important people, that I can't bear to miss a thing.
My story starts when I was four. I'll call it a Tale of Five Families, because that's what it is, really. Like a Tale of Two Cities. But more confusing.
My mom's name, my biological mother's name was Rebecca Preciado, and she was Mexican and liked to sing to me in Spanish, and she loved birds. My early memories of her are blurred because I was so young - from the ages of zero to four, it was just me and her. My dad, unfortunately, spent a lot of time on the inside of a jail cell. He wasn't a bad guy. He was a very good guy, actually, but we were never a family with money and instead of finding work, he wanted instant gratification and resorted to petty theft. Never hurt a fly - he just stole, but he was caught and thrown in for time. I barely had a relationship with my father. He was never around, so it was me and Mom on our own until I was three and, after being let out of prison and returning home, my parents told me that I was going to have a little brother or sister. Which was very exciting.
Until about three months into her pregnancy (as far as I remember and as far as I've been told by people over the years - I was still very young) when my dad reoffended, got caught and got put back inside. That's where things started getting fucked. For want of a better word.
My little brother was born just after I turned four. For about a month and a half after he came into the world, things were pretty decent, until Mom started getting constantly tired. Constantly feeling like she had flu. Frequent nosebleeds. A trip to the doctor turned into a trip to the hospital, which turned into a treatment programme of chemotherapy when she was diagnosed with leukaemia.
The tank ran dry. Mom obviously couldn't work through her treatment...she was just so ill, and with Dad still inside, our money reserves were desperately low. My brother couldn't feed properly as she stopped producing enough milk and for me, she could barely afford to put food on the table, relying more often than not on food banks to get us through the week. And the chemo made her so, so sick, and the hospital trips turned into hospital stays...had I been older, perhaps it could have worked. But I was four, and Tomás (Tom for short - my brother) was barely three months old. We had no grandparents or relatives to live with, so in came the authorities, and in the blink of an eye we found ourselves locked into the foster care system.
That's where we stayed for almost the rest of our lives so far. We spent a little while then living in foster care at a children's home until we were assigned to a family - foster family number one, the Addlesons. Foster Mom Hayley, foster Dad Martin, pet rabbit. For Tom, the transition was almost totally painless. Still a baby, once he was over the initial separation from the woman who had been his main caregiver he attached to our foster parents very easily, and they were wonderful folk so they treated him like their own. They treated me like their own too, but I was just old enough to know I didn't belong to them, and almost every night without fail I gripped my bedsheets and cried a little into my pillow, quietly sobbing and begging for Mommy to come home. I was at Clairemont, then - I'd been enrolled there at kindergarten since I was two, where I remember meeting you with your little head of blond hair that later went dark and got hidden under hats. The Addlesons lived in the local area so staying at Clairemont wasn't an issue, especially when I demanded it. Believe it or not, as a young child, I was very adamant at times.
Mom (my real mom, Rebecca) responded well to her treatment, eventually. When I was six and she went into remission and her hair began to grow back, I got to see her more and more. She would come around to the Addlesons' household, and I would be scared at first and struggle to recognise her - the cancer and the vicious treatment had harrowed her, hollowed her cheeks and sunken her eyes, and her hair that had been so dark and wavy and thick was thin and wispy in short strands on her head and she was frail and thin and weak. But she was still my mom, and she sat on the sofa, exhausted from just the short trip to the house, her fitness in tatters, and Hayley, who got on really well with Mom, would fix her up with tea and cake and I would cuddle into her lap and she would show me picture books about birds. Forest birds and garden birds and desert birds...I didn't care, as long as Mom showed me them. We still couldn't be returned to her care; that's the hope with the foster system. One day, you'll be reunited with your own family, but that wasn't possible yet because she was still recovering and her work had officially dismissed her on medical grounds. Looking back, she must have been living pretty much on the breadline, living on small benefits and charity money whilst she tried to find any job available. No money, and she was still weak - so no reunion.
The most horrible thing was Tom. Although we'd been able to visit her sporadically during her treatment, because we were transferred into the system when he was so young he barely knew her, recognised her or had a relationship with her at all. When she came round Tom would cling to Martin's leg or tug at Hayley's skirt, and when Mom tried to pick him up to cuddle him he would protest and moan and start to cry.
I was young, so barely noticed, but by God it must have torn her heart to pieces every time Hayley had to take him in her arms to calm him down. In my heart of hearts I think that might be what killed her, in the end. A broken heart.
The doctors disagree and say it was a recurrence of the cancer. After years of struggling to get back on her feet the leukaemia came back, more aggressive than before. She was re-diagnosed when I was eight, and she died when I was eight too. It was a quick death. And boy, did I take it badly.
Tomás...well. He hardly cared. He was four. He barely knew her. He didn't have a relationship with her, so, to use a very indelicate term...he didn't give a shit. I did. If it's possible for eight year olds to collapse completely into depression, I did it, and as much as Hayley tried to cheer me up with my favourite foods and Martin tried to settle down with me to talk about it, I could not be consoled and I cried frequently and wailed for Mom to come home. I can identify it as the worst point in my life. Without a shadow of a doubt. To this day, all the time, the thought plagues me; if I could see her one more time, if she could see me now...I wouldn't ever let go of her. I still miss her so, so, so much.
Still at Clairemont, that's when the school became a symbol of normality. Tom was not enrolled there - when he came to try out the kindergarten when he was two, he hated it and protested and insisted to be taken home, and it would probably have been too expensive in any case, so he attended a local, smaller kindergarten and never came through Clairemont gates again. School, in the period of aftermath after Mom passed away, became hell and heaven at the same time. Every break time without fail I would disappear to the bushes to play with the birds, to feed them seeds, to sometimes cry, to sometimes stroke their feathers. That was the only way I had left of being close to her. That was the only thing that made any sense.
But my unhappiness did not lift with time. In fact, it intensified, and eventually I hit a low so extreme I decided I was going to run away. I packed all my worldly possessions (pretty much a teddy bear and a toothbrush) and snuck out of the house in the night with the intention of going back to my old house to make everything right. My brain did not work right; it took me about forty minutes, longer than is usual, to scare myself silly and want to go home, finding myself totally lost in small-town San Diego.
I was found again very quickly after Hayley discovered I was missing and called the cops, and then I was returned to their house, and I incurred the wrath of the authorities in doing so. The day after my runaway attempt, the social workers came round to the house and sat us all down, discussed the situation and what to do next - you see, when foster kids go running away, eyebrows get raised. Hayley insisted she could handle it - her eyes said different. It wasn't that she couldn't control me; she couldn't console me, and that hurt much more, and I hadn't realised until that meeting how much my behaviour had made her struggle.
They asked me how I felt about living there. I wanted to say I wanted to stay - I wanted to try. But I couldn't. It was as if the place held Mom's presence too tightly, so I cried at that meeting at the kitchen table and I said I wanted to go.
And go we did. The foster system scooped up me and my brother and took us out of the home and back into the system, and I think it was at that point Tomás started to hate me. Tom did NOT want to leave the Addlesons. He was a happy child at a nice elementary school with a nice family, and he even called them Mommy and Daddy. I ripped him away. The foster system is often reluctant to separate siblings unless circumstances are extremely exceptional, so where I went he went too and even at that young age, when he couldn't see the shades of grey and the world was black and white, he identified me as the reason he had to leave his home. And I suppose he was right, really.
We were actually only in a care home for a few weeks before we were assigned to foster family number two: Jasmin and Clive Cramond. It was alright. I was still allowed to go to Clairemont and my brother was still allowed to refuse. It was okay for nine months. I can't say I was happy there - Jasmin was kind but oblivious and Clive was work hardened and too tough for me, who wanted to play with birds and read books and do baking. But it was fine, until, as I say, about nine months after being placed there, when Clive's own mother died.
It wasn't all his fault. In grief, he didn't turn to his wife and he didn't seek help or support. He found alcohol instead and drank himself blind, and when he was drunk, he got nasty. Mostly towards Jasmin. Tomás and I were brought briefly closer together, the amount of times he came to sit on my bed and we sat there cuddling, me trying to be a smart big brother, as we heard them shouting endlessly downstairs. Screaming, crying...Jasmin would come to us after. In some ways, she stepped up then, and she became a better foster mom because she could see we were losing a father, and she would come to reassure us. I think she also came to us then so we could reassure her too. She didn't want to give up on her husband. She still loved him, although he made her visibly miserable - but before long shouting wasn't enough, and he began to hit her as well.
After time I started to get caught up in the crossfire, because Clive's drinking became increasingly changeable and volatile. Rather than drinking at night he drank at dinner or earlier, so by the time I was home from school and Tom was doing homework he was probably already pissed. So the fights started to involve us more than necessary, simply because we were around when they started shouting. Tom became good at disappearing quickly, but I'd find myself trapped, so I'd wriggle back into a corner and slip down the wall and cover my ears with my hands and cry very quietly. This was the routine almost every day for months, and Jasmin continued to put up with it. Back then, I didn't see why; but looking back, she didn't want to lose her husband and as much as she wasn't the strongest wannabe mother, she didn't want to lose her foster kids either, because she did love us. She stuck to it, until Clive's violence finally turned to me and he hit me so hard I blacked out.
Jasmin drew the line. Shouting at her was fine. Hitting her was fine. But at the first notion of him hitting us, that was the end of it. That night, in absolute silence, she snuck into mine and Tom's room and got us to pack up anything we needed as quietly as possible, and we tiptoed down the stairs and she bundled us into a taxi and we went to a help centre for victims of domestic violence.
Jasmin stayed there until me and Tom had to leave again. Of course, we had to go again - when you're foster kids in an abusive household, the moment the authorities find out you are taken the fuck out of there. When we went back into care for the third time I don't know what happened to Jasmin. The people at the Women's Shelter took care of her to help her find solutions, but I never found out what happened to her after that. I don't know to this day, but I hope, at least, she is safe and Clive is destined to rot in Hell for what he did to her.
A few months in care. I was now ten and my brother was six, and by this point I was old enough to realise that even though we were still living in the foster system and therefore living in the hope of being reunited with our father one day, with him still on the inside I began to accept the likely fact we would never be together again. It didn't make me that sad - as Tomás never knew our mother, neither of us ever knew our father. It was whilst I was in the children's home that I met Tony; he was with his mom one Saturday, helping out in the kitchen on a volunteer service, serving us lunch. We both liked Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and we've been friends ever since.
And after that came foster family number three - The Smiths.
The most wonderful people you could ever think of meeting. Their names were Kyle and John and I can guarantee you have never met kinder, more genuine men in your life. Married for six years, together for ten...they were the most functional and normal and positive couple I've ever had the pleasure of being in the company of. As much as Tomás hated me by this point (which was quite a lot, because he still blamed me for leaving the Addlesons in the first place), he liked it there too. It was safe, it was calm...I was starting to develop anxiety at this age, unsurprisingly, but with their help I was able to curb some of it to stop it overruling my life completely. I still remember the way the home was - how all the furniture was set out, how the living room was large and bright and airy and how the sofas were soft with fluffy cushions and how John took the time to stencil birds onto the wall in my room. Part of me thinks they knew - they knew the likelihood of me being reunited with my Dad was not particularly great, and I think that they were preparing for the day when the authorities would bite the bullet and we would be moved from the foster system to the adoption system, and then they could legally call us their sons. I'd have been happy to do that - and although Tomás so desperately wanted to go back to the Addlesons, still, after all this time, I think he would have obliged too.
My father, credit to him, did try to clean up his act. When he finished his time in prison he realised that if he kept stealing, he'd never see us again, so he made an honest effort. He came to visit us a few times, the first time I'd seen him in so many years, and promised he was going to get a good job so we could come home. I didn't like that idea, if I'm honest with myself. I was finally happy with John and Kyle, and I knew them, and I did not know my father, and he did not know us. But I recognised he wanted to make an effort. He wanted us back in his life, but...when you have a criminal record of repeat offending for theft, people don't want to hire you. He hopped between short, underpaid jobs, each one ending when they found out about his record, so he went the one place he could find work and make money and start all over; the US Army.
So we stayed with John and Kyle for about three years, until I was thirteen and Tom was nine. John was a music teacher, and he taught piano, flute and guitar, and he taught me and my brother to play. Kyle was a chef, and he taught me to bake all these amazing things. And then, because I swear I'm cursed, disaster struck once more.
It was a freak accident. Kyle, on his way to the restaurant, was involved in a car accident. It almost killed him, but it didn't and instead it claimed the use of his legs. At first. John sat us down at home and explained things were going to change; Kyle was still Kyle, but he wouldn't be able to walk anymore and he wouldn't be able to play with us very much, and there would be lots of doctor's visits and so on...Kyle was home for a week after the accident until his brain started haemorrhaging.
The doctors couldn't locate the bleed. They were able to reduce and control the bleeding, but not stop it completely. Apart from fucking up his vision, motor control and speech, it gave him physical pain in his neck and back that, effectively, destroyed his quality of life. And by extension, ours.
Medical bills are fucking expensive - I know I don't need to tell you that. The money went to treatment and therapy and other health related components. Reserves for our education dried up even more when we had to employ a professional carer to help us take care of Kyle. John collapsed into depression. My anxiety worsened immeasurably. And when I became emotionally unavailable to Tomás at the time he needed his big brother most, it sealed the deal and he went back from almost getting along with me to wishing I didn't exist. This was all my fault in the first place, after all.
The pattern continued. Authorities involved. Social workers at the house. John cried as he kissed us on both cheeks and pulled on our jackets and he forced a smile as he waved us out of the house.
More care. Care homes are much better places than they used to be, but they aren't perfect. I tried, for the month we were there, to fix things with Tom. He wouldn't have it. I couldn't blame him. Even today, although things are better now, we aren't close, and I know we never will be.
When the organisation finally found us a placement home again, Tom refused to go. He was ten. Finally, after being shipped around like cargo his whole life, he snapped, and refused point blank to go to a new house and a new family, cried and clenched his fists and wailed and insisted he was going back to the Addlesons. Now, I told you before that typically, as shit as the system is, they don't like separating siblings. The situation for splitting up siblings has to be absolutely irrefutable and unavoidable. When Tomás said he would under no circumstance go to a new home and I insisted that under no circumstances would I go back to the Addlesons, where I could feel my mom in the walls...we left them with very little choice.
So Tomás went back to Hayley and Martin, and I moved on to foster family number four. Sarah and Andrew Princeton.
I was fourteen now. My anxiety was...shockingly bad. It was a mercy if a day went by I didn't have a panic or anxiety attack. There were times when I would actually worry myself so badly over trivial things I'd throw up or hyperventilate to the point of passing out. I could barely communicate with people - trying to speak made my tongue become all tied up in knots and my stomach flip over, so when I moved in with Sarah and Andrew I may as well have been mute.
Andrew is smart. He has a degree in psychology, and it didn't take him long to notice all the symptoms. He was gentle and professional, and he got me on a course of counselling and therapy almost straight away. Sarah drove me to every session. It was always in the car with her that I'd open up a bit more, tell her about myself, ask questions about her. She never pushed - not once. Of course, she knew about me what she'd read on my file, but nothing personal. Nothing about the person I was, and she allowed time to learn it. She let me warm to her first. She let me be comfortable, and when I told her how much I loved the birds that had been the symbol of my mother and of comfort my whole life, she helped me make bird feeders and bought bird seed for me to feed the sparrows in the back garden. When I was fifteen, Tony told me he could fix me up with a tattoo. I jumped for it, and got the swallows on my wrist - they had been Mom's favourite birds, and they were mine too.
My dad, my real dad, was finally making money. He was working hard. He didn't have much leave with the army, but whenever there was some he'd come by and say hello. The more I saw him the less I wanted to live with him - I did not know him and I did not understand him and because I was still socially anxious, I was scared of him too.
I settled with Sarah and Andrew. My anxiety started to fizzle down and only crop up in social situations, as a rule of thumb. Sarah baked with me the way Kyle had done. I texted my brother now and then - I was fifteen years old but already Hell bent on making things right between us, and it started to take effect as I tried to balance the healing power of time and my own actions towards him.
The threat, of course, was my father. He was almost stable enough to take us back into his life, which frightened me more than you know. Looking back, had the situation come to it, it may have been possible anyway that I would have been allowed to stay with Sarah and Andrew, but it never got to that point. When I was sixteen, a stray bomb in Afghanistan took my father's life.
His name was Matiás. I haven't mentioned that. I struggled to be upset when he died - I'd hardly had a relationship with the man. For the majority of my life he had been a deviant and a thief, spending my childhood behind bars to atone for what he did. In many ways, back then, I was not happy to be his son. But I will say this about my father; he died a hero. People can say what they like about the military - I get they have different opinions. And they can say what they like about war too, and disapprove of it all. I disapprove of war. But no matter the war or the army, I have always thought, you respect the soldier. You don't know their situation, how they came to be there, you don't know what things they've done in the field. And my father died trying to save a fellow soldier, so people can say what they want about the army but they cannot say he was not a hero. I may be estranged from him, but he turned his life around, and he did it for me and Tom, and I was and still am proud of him for that.
Tomás and I, after so long, were finally official orphans and taken off the foster care register, transferred to the adoption system. There was much deliberation - there were meetings with me, Sarah and Andrew and the social workers, and there were meetings with all of us plus my brother and the Addlesons. On reunion Hayley embraced me like a long lost son and Martin shook my hand like a proud dad. There were discussions, there were arguments...and eventually it was decided that I would be adopted into the Princeton family and Tomás would be adopted into the Addlesons.
I was adopted at the age of seventeen. After all the bullshit of my life I still say I was lucky - the moment a kid turns eleven, their chances of getting adopted plummet, and I was adopted at seventeen in a relatively painless transition.
I'm happy now. I do think so. I've kept the name Preciado because it means I carry a part of Mom with me. I've held onto my love of birds for the same reason. I managed to graduate Clairemont with a three point six, which is more than I expected. I have hopes for the future. But I'm still scared. Time has taught me something will go wrong. As irrational as it is I await the day the carpet is ripped from under my feet and I'm uprooted again, packed off to a new set of people. The fear remains. I doubt it will ever leave.
I'm less scared with you, Vic. I want you to know I'm thankful for that. I have never had a strong family and now I have two.
I am sorry it took me so long to tell you this, but I'm sure you understand why. I'm glad I have now.
Thank you for my Christmas. Your family is beautiful.
Yours (truly, wholly),
Jaime x
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