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which we took two weeks before she left me. I had put my bathroom stuff away in the drawers and my toothbrush in a cool holder thing in the bathroom. The room still looked bare, but at least it looked slightly better than before. With the money Liam put in my account, maybe I should get some more things for this room. I was going to be here for a year, so I might as well make it as homey as I could. Plus, I had a feeling I would be in here quite a bit.
    The growling of my stomach made me head back to the kitchen to find something to eat. When I entered the kitchen, I was once against impressed with the size and look of it—a flattop stove, double ovens, and a nice expensive stainless steel fridge. I bet the dark brown cabinets held nice cooking pots and pans, which were probably not even used. Hooked to the kitchen was a big room with a long dining room table that could seat about six people, maybe more. Instead of normal kitchen lights, Liam had dangling deep red glass lights. That was cool.
    Opening the fridge, I glanced at its contents, trying to find something to eat. A lot of the food was in plastic containers and looked to be portioned out. I grabbed what looked to be spaghetti, shut the fridge, and started searching for a bowl. After opening five different cabinets, I finally found the one that held two different types of bowls as well as plates. Grabbing the first bowl I saw, I went to the drawer where I’d seen silverware earlier. I put the cold spaghetti in the bowl, and sliding it in the microwave, I washed the container as best I could before setting it in the dishwasher, knowing I couldn’t get it all the way clean myself. When the microwave dinged, I took out the hot bowl and sat at the bar.
    As I ate my spaghetti, I looked out the windows toward the backyard, thinking about my life. I never thought I would have to stoop as low as marrying a random guy for money. If my mother were here, I wondered if she would be ashamed of me. Just thinking of her made me sad and angry. Being only five years old and left alone in a new place, I’d felt like it was my fault my mom left me. Was I bad? Did I do something wrong? Of course, as I grew I went through different stages, from crying that it was my fault to hating my mother. I used to tell myself that she left for a good reason, that she wouldn’t have abandoned me if she didn’t have a choice. I even convinced myself for a few years that she was dead and that’s why she didn’t come back for me like she said she would. I mean, who would just leave their child at a doorstep and not want to come back for them?
    Now, at the age of nineteen, I didn’t care whether my mother was dead or alive. After years of wondering and blaming myself, I decided it didn’t matter and that she was no longer my mother. She stopped being one the moment she left me at an orphanage. I’d once wanted to find my father, but with nothing to go on and my hidden hatred of him leaving my mother and me, I didn’t do it.
    There were plenty of times I wish I still had my mom. Like when a group of kids at the home would pick on me and I wanted to run to her to feel her arms around me, listening to her telling me things would be okay. Or when I went through my teenage years having to experience everything by myself and being confused when I got my first crush and the same boy being rude to me. Then at graduation, unlike most kids whose families had come and had people yelling for them when they went to receive their diplomas, I had no one there. I walked on the stage while a few people clapped, feeling bad for me. Then, when it was over and my friends went to their families, I handed in my gown and walked home alone. The couple that ran the orphanage couldn’t come because they had to watch the little kids.
    That night, after crying myself to sleep, I finally realized that I would always be alone. Over the years, I’d slowly come to accept that. What I said to Sophia about not ever falling in