Chapter 73 Back to the orphanage
Amelia
I went to my room and pulled out my phone. There was a text from Alex from last night:
Same time tomorrow? 11am at the coffee shop? We can do another session at the range.
Tomorrow was today.
And I'd just agreed to go to the bank with Luca this morning.
I couldn't do both. Had to choose.
The bank was important. Something I needed for practical reasons.
The shooting lessons were—what? Revenge? Independence? A lie that was getting more complicated by the day?
I should cancel. I should have told Alex that I couldn't continue doing this.
But...
I didn't want to stop. The shooting lessons made me feel capable. Strong. It gave me a sense of control over my personal safety.
And cancelling would mean admitting the lessons were wrong. Admitting I was lying to Jeremy. Facing all of that.
I texted back:
Can't make it today. Something came up. Can we reschedule for tomorrow? Same time?
His response came quickly:
No problem. Tomorrow works. Everything okay?
Yes, fine. Just have an appointment I forgot about. See you tomorrow.
See you then. Stay safe.
I put the phone away, feeling the familiar twist of guilt in my stomach.
One more session. I'd go one more time. Learn what I could. Then I'd figure out how to tell Jeremy.
Or maybe I'd just—stop. Stop seeing Alex. Stop lying. Stop this whole mess.
Tomorrow. I'll decide tomorrow.
At nine-fifteen, I was dressed and ready.
Simple clothes. My hair was pulled back. I carefully tucked the envelope containing my money into my bag.
Luca knocked on my door. "Ready?"
"Yes."
He led me to the car. The drive was quiet—Luca wasn't much for small talk, which I appreciated.
"Boss said you're opening a bank account," he said finally. "That's good. You should have your own money. Your accounts."
"Thank you."
"And Amelia?" He paused. "Whatever you're doing with that money—investing it, saving it, spending it—make sure it's what you want. "Make sure it's what you want, not what anyone else tells you to do."
I turned toward where his voice was coming from. "Why are you telling me that?"
"Because your boss cares about you. Boss cares about you a lot. However, it's important to note that caring and controlling can sometimes be mistaken for one another. And you should have things that are just yours. You should maintain your independence from him, the family, and everything else around you.
"Luca—" I said, unable to finish.
"I'm just saying, Keep some things for yourself. Keep some power. Because in our world, power is everything. And the second you give it all to someone else, even someone who loves you, you lose yourself."
We drove the rest of the way in silence.
But his words stayed with me.
Keep some things for yourself. Keep some power.
The car stopped.
"We're here," Luca said. "First National Bank. "Please follow me, and we'll get you set up."
The banker—a woman named Patricia—was patient and kind. She explained the different account types, the fees, and the interest rates. All of it carefully, clearly, treating me like I was capable.
"Now, I just need to see your identification," Patricia said. "Please provide your driver's license or state ID, a social security card, and proof of address, such as a utility bill or lease agreement."
My stomach dropped. "I don't—I don't have those."
"You don't have ID?"
"No. I've never—I never needed it before." My face heated with embarrassment. "I don't have a driver's licence because I'm blind. And I've never had a state ID. Or a social security card. I don't even know if I have a social security number."
Silence. Then Patricia's voice, gentle: "Okay, that's going to be a problem. Banks are required by law to verify identity before opening accounts. Without ID, I can't—I'm sorry, but I can't open an account for you."
"There must be something we can do," Luca said. "Some way to verify who she is."
"Do you have a birth certificate?" Patricia asked. "That would be a start. We'd still need more documentation, but it's the first step."
"I don't know if I have one," I said quietly. "I grew up in a group home. St Mary's. They might have records but I don't—I've never seen them."
"Let me call the boss," Luca said. "Wait here."
He stepped away. I heard him talking on the phone, too quiet for me to make out the words.
He came back a minute later. "Boss says we should go to St Mary's and get your birth certificate if they have it. Then come back here."
"Are you sure?" I asked. "That seems like a lot of trouble—"
"Boss wants you to have this account. We'll make it work." Luca touched my elbow. "Come on. Let's go."
"I'm so sorry," Patricia said. "When you come back with documentation, I'll be happy to help you get everything set up."
"Thank you."
St Mary's Group Home
The building looked the same. Sounded the same. Smelt the same.
I'd lived here from age six until I turned eighteen. I had spent a total of twelve years in these halls. These twelve years were filled with structure, rules, and a constant awareness that I didn't belong to anyone.
"You okay?" Luca asked as we walked up the front steps.
"Yeah. I haven't returned since they forced me to leave.''
"They made you leave? When you turned eighteen?"
"Yes. That's how it works. You age out. They give you a hundred dollars and tell you good luck." I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice. "They did their job. Kept me fed and safe until I was an adult. It wasn't their fault that I had nowhere to go afterwards.''
"That's—" Luca stopped. "That's harsh."
"That's reality," I retorted.
Inside, the receptionist recognised my voice. "Amelia? Is that you?"
"Hi, Mrs Kim."
"Oh my goodness, it's been months! How are you? Where have you been?" She sounded genuinely concerned. "We were so worried when you left. Sister Mary tried to find you but—"
"I'm fine. "I have a job now and a place to stay." I'm okay." I stepped closer to her desk. "Mrs Kim, I need my birth certificate. Do you have it in my records?"
"Your birth certificate? I think so. Let me check." Papers rustling. "Why do you need it?"
"I'm trying to open a bank account. They need ID."
"Oh! Well, that's wonderful. I'm so glad you're doing well. "More rustling. "Here we go. Your file. Let's see—yes, here it is. Birth certificate. Do you need the original or will a copy work?"
"A copy should be fine," Luca said.
"Okay, give me just a moment to make a copy."
She left. I stood there in the familiar lobby, memories flooding back. Not all bad. Some excellent ones too. Sister Mary is teaching me to read Braille. The other children who'd shown me kindness were also present. The structure that had kept me safe.
Mrs Kim returned. "Here you go. One copy of your birth certificate."
"Thank you so much."
"Amelia?" Mrs Kim's voice softened. "I'm really glad you're okay. We do care about you kids, you know. Even after you leave. If you ever need anything—"
"Thank you. That means a lot."
Outside, back in the car, Luca was quiet for a moment. Then: "How long did you live there?"
"I don't know exactly. They said I came to St Mary's when I was six. I left St. Mary's when I was eighteen. So—twelve years, I guess."
"Twelve years. That's a long time." He started the car. "Do you remember anything from before? Before St Mary's?"
"No. Nothing. Sister Mary said I was found on the streets. No parents. No family. No name except Amelia. They never found out where I came from." I shrugged. "So St Mary's is the only home I remember."
"That must have been hard. Not knowing where you came from."
"You can't miss what you never had." But that wasn't entirely true. I'd always wondered. Who my parents were. Why they'd abandoned me. I wondered if they had ever given me any thought after my departure.
But wondering didn't change anything.
"Well, now you have the certificate," Luca said. "Let's get you that bank account."