“I never knew the identity of my father. I’m sure my mother never knew his name either.”
She looked over at me. Perhaps she expected some sort of response, but when I didn’t give one, she continued. “When I was three years old, my mother was sent to prison for being involved in an armed robbery. After I was older, I learned she was high on meth at the time. Since the courts weren’t able to locate any of my relatives, they placed me in an institution called The Children’s Home. It’s run by a group of churches and resembles something between a boarding school and a foster home.”
“Is it located here in Norman?”
“No, it’s in Moore, a few miles north of Norman. It looks like a college campus, but instead of dorms, there are eight large houses. I lived in one of them with ten other children of various ages. A married couple—we called them Mom and Dad—took care of us, and they did everything normal parents do for their children. On Sundays, we all attended church together. I admit that was one of the most enjoyable times of the week for me, because, as we sat together in the service, it felt like I belonged to a real family.”
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