I’m 28 years old, and I grew up in an orphanage.

By the time I was eight, I had already learned the meaning of rejection. I had been placed with foster families more times than I could remember. At first, I used to pack my things carefully, hopeful each time. Then I stopped unpacking altogether. Because every family eventually gave up on me.

Some said I was too quiet. Others said I asked too many questions. One woman told the social worker I was “too attached,” as if wanting to be loved was a flaw.

So when I was transferred to yet another orphanage, I didn’t cry. I didn’t ask why. I just followed the staff down the hallway, carrying a single worn-out bag that held everything I owned.

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