1I remember being asked, once, what my most precious thing was. I expect I was supposed to answer with mummy or teddy or even home. I don't tend to do what people expect of me.
"My cloud." I replied, shyly.
"Your cloud?" Miss Appleton asked, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow at the five year old me as I nodded enthusiastically. "How do you know that you are looking at your cloud when you look up at the sky?" she obviously didn't like me for some reason or she wouldn't have been trying to make me doubt my beloved cloud. She epically failed in her mission though. Nothing could stop me from loving my cloud.
"I don't have to see my cloud miss! I always know it's there to watch over me. Sometimes it's a clown or a dog or a flower but my cloud is always there for me. That's what daddy said before he died. He told me that he would sit in my cloud and make sure I was okay. My eyes welled up with tears so I turned away. I never, even at that age, cried where people could see me. Crying made me look weak and that wouldn't help me keep the people important to me safe.
I ran my fingers through the lush grass of the hillside. I gazed out across the canvas of the countryside, which had a border of dry stone walls and was splattered with the white blobs of sheep, until my eyes blurred with tears. My cheeks were sodden with tears but I didn't make an effort to wipe the wetness away – I was alone. I looked up at the sky which was scattered with clouds. There was a love heart, a story book and the head of a snake with its forked tongue. I wondered which my cloud was. My daddy was sitting in one of those clouds, watching over me and keeping me safe. I could remember my dad perfectly: he had eyes as green as the hills he loved so much; his brown hair was always messy no matter how much effort he put in to make it neat; his warm smile was gentle and kind. My daddy was the best man in the world. I'm sure my mum's the best woman in the world, but I can't really remember. She is so cloudy – my memory of her is foggy and no matter what I do I can see no way to make it clearer. It is strange because, although my mother gave me up months after daddy died, my mother is a stranger to me. I don't know her. I suppose it's because when daddy dies I knew I wouldn't see him again so I took the time to memorise him but when my mother left me with my new foster mum I didn't understand she was leaving me. Being the stupid four year old I was, I ran straight off to play with my new toys without even stopping t kiss my mother goodbye. Even when I was told I would never see her again I barely shed a tear – never doesn't seem that long when you're that young.
I wish I had taken more notice. The woman who fostered me, and later adopted me, means everything to me but I still feel a need to get to know my biological mother.
"Where have you been Rache?" Mum asked me. She was in the kitchen cooking dinner.
"The hill, of course." I said. Mum knew exactly where I went whenever I had time to spare. It was the best place for cloud watching. Well, maybe she didn't know exactly where the hill was because I never took anyone there. It was my special place and I didn't want to share it with anyone, no matter how much I love them. It was somewhere that I could think about things; I could be cheerful, miserable, cross or however I felt like being – I could be alone.
"Can I talk Rache?" Mum asked. Her normally relaxed and gentle face was moulded into a frown of worry. She was obviously about to tell me something big. Mum was a lot like me in the way she never let people see her worried or upset. We both did our best to protect the people we loved.
"Of course you can! Just don't expect me to listen to you." I exclaimed with a light hearted grin which I didn't feel.
Mum sat down and handed me a letter, "It's from you biological mum." she said, looking at the floor – she knew what my reaction would be. I would shout at her and forget all about shielding her from the worry that negative emotion on my part might cause.
"You read my letter?" I shouted, shooting out of my seat at the kitchen table. I knew the letter would have come through social services and they would have read it, but it didn't stop me from lashing out at her. "You have no right to do that, and she has no right to send me a letter and expect me to happily read it then go live happily ever after with her!" Deep down I knew that she wanted to explain to me. I also knew that talking to mum about going and living with my mother might upset her. Mum loved me and all she wanted was for me to be happy but I can't pretend that she wouldn't be upset. My anger was misdirected and I knew it. I wasn't angry at Mum, I wasn't even angry at my biological Mum. I was angry because I couldn't remember her.
"Do you want to go to your room so you can read it alone?"
"Okay," I mumbled as I walked to my room. Mum knew me perfectly. I needed time to get through whatever a letter from my mother, my real mother, might bring. I needed that time alone. I couldn't read the letter or deal with it when someone else was around – that wasn't the way I worked. I was very independent.
I sat down on the edge of my bed, clutching on to my letter with shaking hands. I began to open the letter, slowly, being careful not to damage it. I couldn't damage the holder which held the first contact I'd had with my mother in nine years. Edging out the letter I took a deep breathand as I unfolded the letter, a photo dropped out. It was of a woman holding a small child, both of them had massive smiles. I looked at the woman, taking in every detail of her face: at first glance her face was smooth, but looking closer I could see some wrinkles around her eyes; her lose brown hair reached just past her shoulders and it shone with streaks of blonde and red; her blue eyes were caring and full love for the child in front of her – full of love for me. I read my mother's letter. It explained how after daddy's death I was all she had left and she had done everything she could to make sure I had everything I had ever needed or wanted. It was hard work but she didn't care, as long as I was happy she was happy too. Then disaster struck – she fell ill with cancer, being ill meant she couldn't work as much and she had to make the tricky decision to send me into care. She didn't know if she could take care of me. She got better eventually but never found the right time to contact me. She had a box in her room of cards and letters that she had never sent. My biological mother wanted to see me again – my mummy wanted to see me again! That's what she was now: Mummy. She wasn't my mother or my biological mum anymore. Mummy's face was imprinted in my mind now and memories of her were coming back to me. She was no longer a stranger.
She was no longer clouded.
A/W Hope you enjoyed it everyone! You're awesome if you read this and you're even more awesome if you review it! My other stories would also like to be reviewed. :) Also big thanks to my brother for editing it for me.
-TBO