Chapter 7: Who's Emilio?

They called me Emilio Destin. But the question that haunted me was, where did that name come from, and who decided to give it to me? You see, I never knew my parents. They were faceless phantoms in the fog of my imagination, figures I couldn’t even summon in my dreams. I often wondered who brought me into this world, and more importantly, why. The name, Emilio Destin, was it chosen out of affection, or was it simply a random name slapped on by a passing stranger? But it seemed that unanswered questions remained a puzzle with too many missing pieces.

I’ve always had this weird feeling that my life was not planned for, merely a product of chaos and deceit. But was there really such a thing as luck for people like me, when I’ve been told countless times how lucky I was to be in the orphanage. Was it really luck or was that just a convenient lie we were told to make sense of the senseless?

I grew up in an orphanage that stood at the edge of a small town, its once-white paint now peeling in jagged strips, revealing the bare, weathered wood beneath. The building sagged slightly, burdened by the years of neglect. But inside, despite its overall air of neglect, a certain order persisted. The floors, though scarred and worn, were scrubbed clean, revealing the faded patterns of years of foot traffic. The walls, marked with stains of time, were periodically wiped down, leaving the worst of the grime at bay. In the main rooms, tables were arranged with some trace of care, their surfaces cleared of clutter, though the wood was chipped and scarred from years of use.

In spite of our ragged clothes and weary expressions, we were accustomed to maintaining a level of tidiness. According to the rules, if we could speak or walk, we were told to pick up after ourselves, keep our few belongings neatly in corners or on sagging shelves. The children aged seven and up were given the responsibility of not only making their own beds but also tending to the younger ones' beds. Each morning, they moved with quiet efficiency, smoothing out the wrinkled sheets and tucking in the corners with practiced hands. The younger children, some still clutching their worn-out stuffed animals, watched in silence as their older peers ensured their beds were neatly made.

The staff, indifferent to the children's efforts, barely noticed the neat rows of made beds, taking it as a given that the older kids would manage it. To them, it was just another task off their list, something they wouldn't have to bother with themselves. But to the children, this responsibility was a small act of control in a life otherwise dictated by others, a way to assert some sense of order in a place that often felt chaotic and uncaring.

The dining room tables were set with mismatched plates and utensils, each place carefully arranged. The chairs were lined up neatly, ready for the meal that was served twice a day. Even in the communal areas, where the children gathered to pass the time, the furniture, though shabby and worn, was kept in relative order. The few remaining toys were collected into baskets, giving the impression that, at least on the surface, someone still cared.

There was a small, multipurpose classroom tucked away in a corner of the building. Regardless of its limited space, the room was meticulously organized to accommodate different age groups. The walls were lined with dusty shelves holding worn alphabets, basic reading and math workbooks, their spines cracked from years of use. A faded chalkboard dominated one wall; its surface covered with faint traces of past lessons. Each day, the classroom transformed as we gathered in different groups, depending on our age and the subject scheduled for that time. For instance, In the mornings, the youngest children gathered to work on learning the alphabet and counting.

As the day progressed, the older kids settled into their seats, concentrating on more complex topics such as writing, reading, and arithmetic. The main goals were to print our names and spell words correctly. Since many staff members struggled with reading, teachers were brought in from the local Christian church. Despite the classroom being small and not ideal, it offered one of the few chances for us children to engage deeply in our quest for knowledge, regardless of its limitations.

Despite its cleanliness and order, the orphanage remained a site of sorrow. While the attempts to provide comfort were evident, they inadvertently emphasized the void that existed within. Maintaining tidiness seemed focused on preserving a façade rather than cultivating genuine care. The glaring disparity between the well-kept surroundings and the overlooked lives of the children stood as a chilling testament that mere cleanliness could not conceal the deeper issues at play.

It was a setting where every child carried the burdens of their history, regardless of how tragic or fragmented it might be. Each of us possessed a narrative, a strand connecting us to our backgrounds, locations, and others. In contrast, I found myself the odd one out. I was the child devoid of a narrative, a puzzle even among the forsaken. I discovered that some of the children weren’t truly orphans. Their impoverished parents had left them there in desperation, making empty promises of a return. They held onto that belief, like a small firefly glowing in the darkness. However, I had nothing to hold onto, no glimmer, no firefly, no sense of hope. Just a name, accompanied by a past as fleeting as the wind.

No one was coming back to claim me as their child. I was invisible, fading into the background whenever adoption day arrived. Every three months, the staff would round up all the children, preparing us to look as presentable as possible. They made sure we were scrubbed clean, dressed in our best clothes and our hair neatly combed. We were lined up like little soldiers, and told to smile, to put on our best faces for the prospective parents, hoping to catch someone's eye. But no one ever looked my way. I stood there, unnoticed, just another unpleasant face in the crowd, knowing very well that I would be overlooked.

I learned long ago not to expect anything. I wasn’t one of those children who spent the night before adoption day, dreaming of a family, hoping to get selected. I knew better. Even the children who weren’t real orphans, stood a better chance than I did. It didn’t matter that they were only in the orphanage temporarily, they were still in the lineup waiting to get picked out like prized dolls from a display shelf, while I was left to gather dust. And so, during the process, I would watch as another set of parents to-be walked down the line. Their eyes skipped over me as if I were only a shadow, forcing me to come to terms with the fact that I was not adoptable.

Odette, the warm and nurturing soul who was in charge of feeding the orphanage, was nothing like the label she was given as a monster lady. Her facial expression caused fear among the children. As for me, I saw a different side of her. She always went out of her way to show me grace. I suspected she had a special spot in her heart for me, and from the time I was old enough to understand, I realized Odette might have felt sympathy toward me, being the last one to remain from the group of children who came to the orphanage around the same time. She saw the loneliness in my eyes, she said, and the longing for connection of a family.

I eagerly anticipated those moments when she’d pat my head and sometimes hugged me when no one was looking. She affectionately referred to me as "little piggy," insisting that I had an insatiable appetite. So, she would reserve additional portions of food or treat me to a slice of cake. And whenever I was bullied, she would calm me with sweets. Her intention was to fill my life with comfort and warmth.

Odette's kindness and generosity wrapped around me like a protective blanket, shielding me from the harshness of a world that I often felt I didn’t belong. Every time she bent down and whispered, "Just for you, dear," it felt like a secret shared between us, a bond forged in the quiet refuge of the kitchen. The way she’d hide me in a corner, away from the prying eyes and loud voices of the other children, felt like a small rebellion, a silent vow that in this small corner, I mattered to someone.

Her eyes shimmering with the awareness that I could indulge without the worry of punishment or jealousy from the other children. When she picked me to assist her with the cleanup, it seemed odd that she chose such a small kid who could barely understand when there were older children that could assist her much better than I could. For me, it wasn’t just a task, but a subtle affirmation that she favored me over the others. While her actions went unnoticed by others, they represented vital connections, grounding me to a feeling of love that I had never truly known.

Assisting Odette with whatever she felt I could, for me, was more than a chore. It was a ritual that brought us closer, solidifying the unspoken promise that I was not entirely alone in the world. Odette’s kitchen became my sanctuary, a place where the storm raging inside the orphanage couldn’t reach me. I would watch her move about the room, her face a mask of serene concentration. And in those moments, I was thankful.

The kitchen, once a place of simple refuge, transformed in my mind into a symbol of all the affection she had poured into me. A place where we both found solace in each other’s company. I didn’t realize until later that all the extra food, the whispered reassurances, the quiet moments spent cleaning up together, were more than just acts of kindness. Odette had no children of her own, I began to understand the depths of her kindness, the way she had cared for me with quiet persistence. In some ways, I was able to fill her void, just as she did mine.

She taught me not just how to cook or clean, but how to receive love in its quietest, most unassuming form. Looking back, I realized how deeply intertwined our lives had become. Odette may not have been my mother, but she was more than that. She was a guide, a protector, a silent witness to my journey from a frightened child to a young boy who learned to appreciate the subtle ways she nurtured me. I was the child she never had. While her efforts were evident, my heart was still too guarded to fully appreciate her. I didn't yet understand the language of her quiet acts of love, but later, I learned the reason she became attached to me.

Once, out of curiosity, I asked her if she knew anything about my background. Of course, she knew nothing about my parents. But she was there when I was brought to the orphanage as a newborn. I was cradled in the arms of a dead woman, said the sheriff who found me. He speculated that she must have just given birth to me, evident by the way she held me in her arms and the blood that surrounded us. At first, they believed I was dead since my lips had already turned blue. However, to their astonishment, I let out a cry after the sheriff touched me. Somehow, I was miraculously alive. She also told me she was the one who opened the door when the sheriff rushed in and demanded the nurse to save my life. From that moment on, she decided she’d take care of me until I got adopted. She spent a great deal of time nursing me back to health. Though I was ill, she knew I would survive because my fighting spirit was strong.

"So, you are my mother." I said to her, showing her my teeth with the biggest smile.

"Just remember that for the rest of your life." She responded.

“Did you name me?”

“No. why?”

"Nothing, I was just curious. So, who gave me this name Emilio?"

"Hmmm, the sheriff did. He said the name just came to him when he took you out of your mother's clutches. As for your last name, well it's mine. I'll let you borrow it in case you need it someday." She glanced at me.

"You understand, young man. That's how you're registered in this place." She said it in a higher tone.

"Yes mother!" I responded in a teasing manner.

I was grateful to this woman. She had done more for me than anyone else ever had. But will I ever be able to pay her back? The answer, I feared, was no. I would never be able to balance the scales, to repay the debt of gratitude I owed her. I had no idea about the future, I was doomed to this place. But I would make her happy by obeying her and doing what she said. Hoping that would be enough.

My appreciation towards this woman was immense. No one else had ever done as much for me as she had. However, I worried if I would ever be able to repay her. Deep down, I feared the answer was no. Balancing the scales and repaying the enormous debt of gratitude I owed her seemed impossible. The future was uncertain, and it felt like I was trapped in this situation. Nevertheless, my intention was to bring her happiness by following her wishes and doing as she asked, as long as I remained in the orphanage.

I made peace with my reality, and accepted my fate, I discovered early on the art of appeasement. It was a skill, really, one I practiced out of necessity. I figured out what made people happy, what they wanted to hear, what they wanted to see, and I gave it to them. It was a way of living peacefully, avoiding the sharp edges of rejection and disappointment. If I could be what they wanted, I could glide through the days with less friction, with fewer scars.

They called me cunning, a word laced with sharpness and a hint of malice. But I never saw anything wrong with it. If being cunning allowed me to navigate the treacherous waters of orphanage life with even a shred of control, then I embraced it wholeheartedly like armor, a shield against the world. To survive in a place like this, I had to be smart, and strategic. Cunning was just another word for survival in my book.

With each passing year, it meant I was getting older and increasingly age out of the adoption process. While most families preferred to adopt toddlers or infants, I clung to the hope that someone would rescue me from this environment. It wasn't until I turned ten that I truly grasped the reality of living in the orphanage. And for those of us fortunate enough to have been adopted, seemed to have been given a fresh start in life, a new beginning. Only to discover later that most of the so-called adopted children had not truly been adopted; rather, they were chosen to be domestic help in the households of the affluent for their privileged offspring. Those of us who remained behind were faced with both physical and emotional abuse from the older children and staff.

Aware that I would eventually age out and face the world on my own, I committed myself to making the most of my time there. I threw myself into learning as many life skills as I possibly could from Odette, and other staff members. I was preparing myself for whatever the future might bring. I took on numerous daily tasks, mastering them with precision and punctuality. Over time, I earned enough favors to improve my chances of staying on and perhaps even becoming part of the staff one day