War child

I was born into war. My earliest memories were playing hide-n-seek and the twin towers falling. In school we were punished for putting a cloth on our heads because playing gypsy looked a lot like playing terrorist. Trips to grandmothers house were over the river and through airport security. And I never grew into that daily fear that daddy might not come home. 

I grew into a broken woman. Broken family, broken dreams, broken spirit. Now I sit beside my broken mother in her sanctuary as we watch hell unleash on the news channel. "I never told you this," she says without looking at me. "Your daddy found you in that desert. You're one of them. Hell, you'd be queen of them by now. You were their crown jewel."

To say I am shocked is an understatement. "What do you mean? I was adopted?"

"Not adopted. Stolen. And they want you back."