“How are you feeling, Reina?” My counselor asked. I shrugged. “Today’s the tenth anniversary of your mother’s death.”
“She didn’t die,” I said through my teeth.
“Okay, then let’s call it her disappearance.”
My body became rigid as I fought to control my anger. My nails dug into the couch cushion so deep that I could feel I was on the verge of reaching the foam beneath the cloth. “Can we talk about something else?” I said slowly, fighting to control my anger.
The counselor dropped her notepad on the table. “You know what, no because you are hiding behind that wall and it’s making your foster mother frustrated as hell. So no, we can’t talk about something else, not until you come to terms with your feelings.”
That was it. I had enough of this. I bolted up. “Why is it so important for me to open up? Huh? Not everyone is as open as you. We all have secrets behind our wall. Yeah, I’m angry about my mother’s disappearance. What can you do about it? It’s not like you can bring her back. So why don’t you just leave me and my feelings alone.” I marched out the door and ran straight home.
When I reached the foster home, I headed straight for the library and pulled the book about photography from the bookshelf. I opened to page 78, revealing a photograph of me and my mother. “Where are you?” I muttered, kissed the photo, and that was when I noticed the ink at the top of the picture.