I'm on my little machine right now, just brainstorming, listening to crickets, eating a mango, thinking about anger and babies, and how the two do not mix well.
Here it goes:
She learned through a series of family arguments right before her college graduation that she'd been put into foster care as a baby. She had been put up for adoption and then returned to her biological family like a rejected Christmas present.
No one really guessed whether or not she was in pain. Her grandmother was too busy trying to convince her mom to feel lifelong guilt ("You weren't there for your own daughter, only I was!"), and her mom was too busy defending herself ("I was so young, I just wanted a better life for her!").
But she wasn't in pain; she was numb. It was like they told her something she already knew. In her earliest memories, she remembered shadows and screaming and a dark brown carpet and pressing herself against a cool, white wall, hoping to fall into it, be a part of it.
that's all, folks. Now to read your blogs.