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139 Victoria’s Story I was born in Central America, and I lived there with my birth mom until I was five. I later learned from my adoptive parents that I may be half American, so I think maybe my father was American. My brother is two years younger than me, and he also lived with my mom at that time. I don’t remember much about living with our mom, but I remember her long hair. I don’t remember her personality , just that she was a kind lady. When I was five, government soldiers came to our home and took us away from our mom and put me in an orphanage . I was told years later that my mother did not have a suitable job, and that she was not taking care of us well, so that is why we were taken away from her. I remember the orphanage. The orphanage was fun for me; there were lots of kids. There were lots of beds in each room, and the boys and girls were mixed together. I remember my attorney; she was a very nice woman. I remember my foster mom, and I remember the two other ladies who took care of me in the orphanage. My foster mom wanted to adopt me, but she had health issues. My brother came to the orphanage later, when he was five. I don’t remember much about him before he came to the orphanage, and I don’t know who he stayed with—if he was allowed to stay with my mother or not—after they took me away. My brother and I took care of each other; we hung out together. I only stayed at the orphanage until I was seven, when my brother and I were adopted. Most people wanted to adopt me separately, but the people at the orphanage refused to separate us; we were to be together, no matter what. The woman and man who adopted us were Canadian volunteers who had been working in the orphanage for weeks, painting and doing things. They had not thought about adopting a child until they got there to help. When we left, I remember looking at my foster mom and crying a lot. I loved my country very much. I had everything there. I could run around with no shoes and have fun. It was very secure, very safe. I loved my school. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but I trusted people and thought, “Maybe this is better than staying here.” I think if I had known they would listen to me, I would have told them I did not want to go. I had good instincts, but I trusted people too much. We came to Canada in November. When we arrived, I noticed that there was snow on the ground. I didn’t know it was snow. In my country, the clouds come down, so that is what I thought the snow was—clouds. I went outside in my bare feet and I yelled out, “Mucho frio!” (This means “very cold” in my language). We lived in a pretty nice house. My brother and I spoke no English, and my adopted parents spoke to us mostly in English, with just a little bit of 140 Individual Stories Spanish. The only way we could communicate was through facial expressions or by pointing. My brother and I learned English really fast—in one or two years—and we adapted very well to school. At first it was okay, and then my mom became quite unstable. She would do really weird things to insult us and degrade us. She would use punishments even though we didn’t do things to deserve those punishments. As one punishment, she would have my brother sit at the top of the stairs outside and tell me to stand on the sidewalk or the road in front of our house. She would have my brother point fingers, laugh, and make mean remarks to me. Then she would do the same thing to him. If my brother was to be punished, I was to sit beside my mother and degrade him. This is how it all started, and it was very weird for me. It was just like out of the blue, my mom would snap or hit. My brother was beaten up more than me. I was the tough one—I fought back. I don’t know what was in her...

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