It’s the 9th February, 2023. There’s something I should remember about that date, but it’s slipped my mind for the moment.

Nine is one of my favourite numbers. Maybe I put a note in my diary about this day. Nope, nothing in there except the daily happiness quote, which I didn’t read.

Was I supposed to do something today? I check the online diary for reminders. Nothing on there, either.

Why does it feel as if I’ve forgotten something?

Is it a birthday? I keep a list of people I know along with their phone numbers and birthdays. I have to keep the list because I often forget things like last names, birthdays, etc. Not usually phone numbers. I have a good memory for numbers, but not names or birthdays.

I find the date. 9 February. It’s my mother’s birthday. It’s the only thing I know about her, the only detail she left with the agency when she gave me into their care. When I searched for her, it was all they gave me.

Did I find her? Not soon enough. My questions remain unanswered.

I will raise a glass to acknowledge her birthday, but as that’s all I know of her, I can’t drink to her memory, only the sense of loss and abandonment that remains deeply hidden in my being.

No, I don’t think 9 is going to be a favourite number any longer.

This is a fictive short story based on real life experiences and feelings of some of my foster kids.