The Family That Saved Me

They were the picture-perfect family. Two girls and one boy. A big, beautiful brick four-bedroom, three-bath home, complete with a TV room. Morning breakfast was always served at the dining room table, and downstairs there was a playroom for all the kids. In the backyard, there was a sandbox and a swing set.

It was the perfect home for any family.

Everyone believed in God and was taught right from wrong. Everyone was taught manners and how to speak when spoken to. We attended church every morning. My brother was an altar boy.

Grandma would take out her change box and have me count the pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters as a game. And if I found a half dollar in the mix, it was all mine.

Coloring was not just a way to pass time it was an art form. Creating things out of paper, or flour and water, was not just a game; it was a craft. Watching my grandma make her homemade chicken soup was like watching Julia Child on TV. She made every dish with love and care.

They taught me so many things in life; how to cook, how to love, how to count, and how to be a good girl. They loved me every single day until I turned six years old.

And they weren’t even my blood.

They were not my family. Not distant relatives. Not even friends of my biological family.

They were a foster family.

A family who took in the kids who were wards of the state.

Kids like me.

Raven Sapphire