JP Delaney

I don’t remember that, or anything else about that day. I’ve always felt bad about that. If you’re going to spend a last few hours with someone you love, you ought to be able to remember it.

I wasn’t just orphaned. I was uprooted.

The legal name for my new status was cared for, which was the biggest joke of all. Because pretty soon you realize that no one cares. No one cares if you do your homework. No one cares if you have friends or not. No one cares if you come first or twenty-first in your exams. Why should they?

I remember seeing one foster father, Gary, giving his birth son a hug. Still hurting from the loss of my parents, I went to join in. Gary gently told me it would be inappropriate for me to get hugged too. That was the word he used—“inappropriate.” Like I’d made a pass at him or something

Once you get that feeling, it never really goes away.

“That’s a private academy, Claire. The county council’s not going to pay school fees for a child in care.”

Which was typical, I thought. You can move me four times in three years, but when I want something, it’s suddenly too traumatic to contemplate.

Which was typical, I thought. You can move me four times in three years, but when I want something, it’s suddenly too traumatic to contemplate.

Self-doubts ricochet around my brain—How could I have been so stupid? Was it the way I handled it? Did I somehow give the impression at the audition that I’m the kind of woman who’d do that?

Did I even encourage it, somehow?

My name is Claire Wright and I’m comfortable with partial nudity…I recall how I smiled as I said those words. Was that my mistake? Did it come across as ironic? Had I sounded unprofessional?