“I’ve never eaten at a restaurant before,” she said awkwardly as she tried to copy the way I was holding my menu. “Never?” I asked. “Never,” she said.
She was seventeen years old. An unconventional beauty of blended ethnicities and a war-torn life story.
Foster home one had turned into foster home two which had turned into foster home eleven. And foster home eight was anything but a home: abandonment, abuse, sexual assault. She was a baby by no means, but about to have one.
I watched her eyes widen as she scanned the menu prices instead of the menu options. And those widened eyes gave me a glimpse—albeit a tiny one—into the beautiful soul lingering behind them. Continue reading