I stand up on the balcony as mother stood below, she looked quite dissatisfied to me. She asked me about the girl that had been with me for the past weeks. “They moved her to rose cottage.” I shouted in explanation. “They don’t like you to love anyone here.” I wrote her every week, i labored over my paper, writing what we had to write. “I am fine. How is the baby. If I write my letter nicely I will have a star. Love.” There was never a star. We wrote every other day, letters I could never hold or keep but only hear, read – once. “We simply do not have room for children to keep any personal possessions,” they patiently explained when we pieced one Sunday’s shrieking together to plead how much it would mean to me, I loved to keep things, to be allowed to keep my letters and cards. Each visit they told mother i wasn’t eating, that i looked frailer.