Foster

by Claire Keegan

It is something I am used to, this way men have of not talking: they like to kick a divot out of the grass with a boot heel, to slap the roof of a car before it takes off, to spit, to sit with their legs wide apart, as though they do not care.

Why did he leave without so much as a good-bye, without ever mentioning that he would come back for me?

‘Where there’s a secret,’ she says, ‘there’s shame – and shame is something we can do without.’ ‘Okay.’

As soon as she says this, I realise she is just like everyone else, and wish I was back at home so that all the things I do not understand could be the same as they always are.

I drink six measures of water and wish, for now, that this place without shame or secrets could be my home.

‘God help you, child,’ she whispers. ‘If you were mine, I’d never leave you in a house with strangers.’