At eight years of age, my biggest problem should have been deflecting the names of Bucky Beaver and Nerd. My teeth protruded from my lips, my bangs hung in my eyes, and my bobby socks sagged at my ankles. What place do saggy socks have in the mind of a child when my parents sit me down one day after school and tell me, "We aren't your parents'? Thinking I didn't hear them right, they said it again. "We aren't your real parents, and you have a sister." Did I hear right? (What was wrong with my ears?) When they said I had a sister living across town, the words fell around me like shards of glass hitting the floor at once. The blood drained from my face as my hands went over my ears and I shut my eyes. Pretend not to hear, to see, and when I take my hands away, it won't be real, I thought.
             As I stared at my mother and father, I sensed their tension, and my stomach churned. "We've been meaning to tell you this for some time," Dad said. "You see, we are your foster parents. Your father ran away right after you were born. Your mother had a nervous breakdown and was placed in an institution."
             Reality set in quickly. I learned my biological mother had recently made a miraculous recovery. At the state officials' insistence, a meeting was arranged between my sister, my biological mother, and me which forced the unpleasant conversation upon us.
             I started thinking of the secrets I'd have to keep. How could I tell people about this other mother and sister? After all, I still lived with my now "foster" parents. I felt confused and lonely for the first time. I didn't really understand where I belonged anymore. I felt like my world had just turned upside down, and anger set in. Guilt filled some other holes because I felt responsible. I just didn't want to accept this other family into my life.
             ...