Aunt Vivien arrived the next day in a sleek black car that looked out of place in our neighborhood. She wore a charcoal gray suit and pearls, her silver-streaked hair pulled into a tight bun. Her expression when she saw me was not one of joy or even pity. It was determination mixed with resignation.

“Pack what you can carry,” she instructed, her voice clipped but not unkind. “The rest can be shipped later.”

The social workers handled the paperwork while I filled a single suitcase with clothes and stuffed my backpack with photo albums and my favorite books. I left behind my childhood bedroom with glow-in-the-dark stars still stuck to the ceiling.

The drive to Aunt Vivien’s house took three hours. She did not speak much except to ask if I was hungry or needed a bathroom break. I stared out the window, watching my world literally drive away in the rearview mirror.

The legal guardianship process was complicated. There were court appearances, interviews with judges, more social workers, and psychological evaluations. Through it all, Aunt Vivien remained steadfast, if not particularly warm. She hired excellent lawyers and never once suggested sending me elsewhere, even when the process became lengthy and difficult.

My parents never showed up to any hearing. The court tried to locate them to terminate their parental rights officially, but they seemed to have vanished completely. It was as if they had never existed.