I was adopted. I’ve always wanted to meet my real mother. But I still love my adopted family. They were so kind to me. I ate well, I lived in a warm and comfortable house, and I get to stay up pretty late.
Let me tell you about my family. First, there’s my mother. I never called her Mum, I just called her Lisa, her first name. She didn’t mind. She was a very kind to me.
Second, there’s Dad. His real name was Mike, but he never really liked me much so I began to call him Dad attempting to gain his affection. But it didn’t work. I think that no matter what I call him, he would never love me as much as his own child but that’s understandable.
Lastly, my sister. Emily was only 3 when I was adopted and so was I, but she was older by two months. We get along very well, maybe better than real siblings do. When it came to staying up we would just talk to each other. She did most of the talking, I just listened. We didn’t have enough bedrooms and because I didn’t want to sleep in the living room by myself every night I had a bit set up for me next to Emily's bed on the floor. This is where I have slept ever since.
But nothing ever lasts. Everything changed one terrible Thursday night. I was at home Sleeping when Emily opened the front door. The sound of the door woke me from my sleep, I went down to the living room where they all
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He must not have heard me because I would get a slap right across the face. Emily then walked off to our room and I followed. She started telling me about her day. The usual girl problems that surprisingly I didn’t have. But I listened. After she suggested TV and I smiled jumping onto the couch as she was going for the remote. She laughed at my little sister like immaturity and scooted me over and sat down. The TV turned on and we watched it together. Emily was the kind of girl that instead of watching cartoons or dramas would rather watch a documentary or something. I didn’t mind