But they got one thing wrong. I had been in a family photo with them. They’d clearly forgotten about it, probably because it was a day they’d rather not remember. That day was filled with shame for them and they’d erased it from their memories.
A year after my return to the Clarks’ family, they finally decided it was time to take a family photo. The Clark’s mansion, located right in the heart of the city, had a spacious, sunlit living room where the large photo hung prominently. I'd heard from the village kids that a family photo was like a family’s credentials—it showed that no one was left out and everyone had a place. For two years, I gazed enviously at that family photo on the wall, wishing and hoping that one day I would have a spot in it.
Then, one day, I finally got the chance. It was a day I had been waiting for and I made sure to wear the only flowery dress I had, the one that had been tucked away in the back of my closet. It was a bit faded and worn, but it felt special.