![59935EB7-21B6-4D84-B841-ED1B170C9743.jpeg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmS6LRcyzT5WSs5BK11gXd6duePEiFYthCoYSiBXKsx5h1/59935EB7-21B6-4D84-B841-ED1B170C9743.jpeg)First off, like all stories, mine should start at the beginning. I was born in the city of Chicago, Illinois, on the near north side in a place called Old Town. I spent the first 6 years of my life in a place off Mohawk Street, which is not too far from Lincoln Park. As far as I could tell, the first 6 years of my life were somewhat normal. My family seemed to care about me, I was well provided for, and I didn’t need or want for anything. Then one day, I never saw my parents again. 

No one really told me what happened until years later when I was about 13. Until then, I just figured they had left, or maybe I wasn’t quite sure what I remembered because I was so young and perhaps my memories were fuzzy. But when my grandparents, who I had been living with, told me that my parents had died in a car accident, I realized I hadn’t been confused or fuzzy at all. Those people were real, and they really did disappear out of my life in the blink of an eye. With that realization also came the realization that maybe they weren’t the people I thought they were. 

I started to remember details I hadn’t seen before. The constant arguing and yelling in the background, the piling up of mail that could only have been bills they couldn’t pay, me hiding in the closet when things turned into more than just words. Now I remembered I did want something when I was younger. I wanted a family. However, after my grandparents passed away within a month of each other when I was 15, I got a family. And it wasn’t anything like I’d hoped for.