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“My birthparents dealt with them and me in an unhealthy way. The nurse at school noticed the bruises.”
My body jerked involuntarily, and I drew her closer, pressing my lips into her hair. I hated that for her. My mind flitted to some of my students. I knew her. I’d met her thousands of times.
“Children’s Aid apprehended me and placed me in a foster home. At age eleven, they considered me too old for adoption, and my birth family didn’t want to completely give up their parental rights.”
“Jesus Christ.”
She rubbed her hand over my chest in a soothing circle. Comforting me. For fuck’s sake.
“It was the best thing that ever could have happened. I stayed with them until I aged out of the system at age eighteen. On my birthday they took me to their lawyer and added me to their will as their sole beneficiary.” She sniffed and her voice shook. “They offered me their last name, and I took it. They officially made me their own at the very first opportunity.”
“Did they love you the way you deserved?”
“Oh, yes.” She wiped beneath her eyes. “They got me the help I needed, beginning with a diagnosis. My mom homeschooled me until I was able to go back to school. My dad taught me to paint. I loved them. I love them still.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss, baby,” I murmured. “I’m glad you had them.”
“Me too.” Her breath released with a shudder. “So, I spent most of my time either combatting OCD or working through therapy to neutralize it as well as come to terms with the rejection from my birth family. Dreams, for a long time, were a luxury I could not afford.”
“When did things begin to get better?”
“The day I moved in with them, but progress came slowly. They put me through university. I have a degree in engineering.”
I squeezed her tight. “Smarty-pants.”
She shrugged again. “Yes, but so stressful. I lasted two years working in that industry before I could no longer hack it. My parents passing in combination with the job stress pushed me overboard. Stress is not good for OCD.”
“I can imagine,” I replied. I couldn’t, not really. But I wanted to.
“I got back into art and music. Taught piano and singing for a little while. Eventually I started working with Willa and Junie. My parents left me with full financial freedom so I could afford to, well, dream.”
Minty
Talking about my parents eased the ache of missing them. Explaining what they gave to me, expressing how much it meant to me, filled a tiny bit of the hole they left when they died.
“What’s it like?”
“What? OCD?”
“Yeah. What does it sound like in your head?”
I looked inwards. “It’s difficult to isolate it from my regular thoughts.”
How to explain something that was simply part of my normal. If I asked him to explain how his brain was different from mine, he wouldn’t be able to do it. Did we even see colors the same way? Hear music the same way? Maybe my green was closer to his yellow. I barely knew what it was like to not have OCD. Then, I brightened with the perfect example.
“You know in the summer, at night, when you’re in bed and you think the whole house is quiet and suddenly the air conditioning shuts off?”
I tilted my head back to look at him.
“Yes.” His grey eyes scanned my face, listening intently.
“It’s like that. I notice the quiet. I notice when it’s not there.”
He tilted his head, looking almost relieved. “So, it’s just background. White noise.”
I winced. “Most of it.”
His eyes tightened on my face. “What parts aren’t?”
