I was 11 when I was adopted the second time.

Incredible luck for me, you would say. But not. I didn't think so. Perhaps because my birth mother died the day after I was born. My father, well ... he didn't care about us. I was adopted by my great aunt, at least. Better her than an orphanage, right?

Only… poor thing. She didn't last long. I was adopted again. It is luck, some say. After all, who wants to adopt an older child? Well ... if that's luck, don't even tell me what's bad luck.

The only thing I really benefited from was the fact that James and Nora Klein were my mother's college friends. They already had two children, but they still welcomed me in their family. Maybe because they didn't have much of a choice either. The persistent gut I have is from my biological family.

My great aunt contacted them - or threatened them - before her kidney killed her for good. They were the only other people she knew my mom trusted to stay with me. And I stayed, at last.

I got the surname Klein. But it would have a lot more weight than I imagined.