When I was young and placed in my first foster home, I could not believe how lucky they were. They had milk in their refrigerator every day. I thought to myself, “Wow, they must be rich.” It was close to Christmas and for the first time in my life, I hoped Santa would remember me and bring me something, because I was staying in a rich person’s home. I dared not voice my desire to anyone, but I prayed, “God, let me get a present with a bow on it.” Christmas morning, I woke up and I was scared to leave my room. What if I was too bad, too ugly, and too dirty for Santa to bring me a present? When I finally made my way out of my bedroom door, I could not believe my eyes. There was the most beautiful Christmas tree I had ever seen, with what seemed like a million presents under the tree. “Could one of them be mine?” I asked myself. With hopes soaring, I walked into the room and sat down in a corner just staring at all the packages. I thought, “Santa does come to rich people’s houses”. At that moment, my foster mother came in and informed me that I would need to stay in my room that day, because they had family coming to the house to visit. With my shoulders and heart sinking, I walked back to my room. As the day went on I could hear them gleefully opening their presents. That night as I went to bed, I said to myself, “Santa must not come for foster kids.”
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