I was in a room full of counselors and campers and tutus and music and it was the last place I wanted to be

They said your name was Abby. I promised to love you from the minute I met you.

I didn’t.

I’d asked for a boy, you were a girl. I’d requested a little kid and nobody would ever mistake you for that. I preferred a kid with Down’s, with cute almond-shaped eyes. Yours were blank, typical of a kid on the autism spectrum.

Until the buses rolled in, I’d had this picture of what you looked like, blonde hair, bows, maybe All Star high tops.

Your hair was brown. It was a pretty light brown, chin length. I guess 14-year-olds don’t wear bows anyway. I’d have to try out my fishtail braiding skills on somebody else.

The first word you whispered — whined, really — was “home.” I know I should’ve wiped away your tears and hugged you like I’d known you since forever and promised to protect you from all evil.

But I couldn’t. I just put my hand around your shoulders and waited.

I actually would’ve loved to be home too. We could’ve cried together. I was in a room full of counselors and campers and tutus and music and it was the last place I wanted to be.