"I am so so soooo happy for you, Nor. Finally, you will meet your biological family," I said to Nora while being a sobbing mess, giving her a tight hug like a life-size teddy bear, clinging onto her. "Hey, hey, calm down, Ra-ra. You know you are being more emotional thanIe," she sniffled and laughed simultaneously while commenting on my current state of dishevelment. I broke the hug, tears still spilling down from my eyes like an unscrewed tap water. Of course, I was truly happy for her. After all, we have been searching for her family for ages, and finally, the fruits of our hard work have been reaped. But as I say this, I am feeling sorrow within my heart as well because now we'll have to part ways, and I don't know when I will see her next. This is making my nose itchy. I, Myra Miracle, and my best friend, Nora Smith, have known each other since we were still in our diapers, meaning since birth. We were both raised in an orphanage together, and later on were adopted. Luckily, for both of us, our adoptive parents used to live in the same neighborhood, so we remained best friends over the past twenty years or so. On our sixteenth birthday (the orphanage's anniversary), we decided it was time for us to find our biological parents and confront them about it. I was quite against the idea of finding our blood families initially, as I didn't want to come face to face with them and know the reason why they left me. They could be living frugally, yes, that can be the case. But there can also be a possibility of them living happily without my presence, and I don't want to relive the feeling of abandonment again in my life, which will be unbearable to say the least. Till the tender age of two and a half years, all the children were treated well in the orphanage, but when our orphanage's anniversary was approaching, which was our supposed third birthday, there was a change in the management, and from then on, all our miseries and bullying started. We were not given nutritious food, forget about nutrition, as we were not given food and were at times forced to beg for it. Whenever any of us complained or confronted them, they would use all kinds of means to torture us, children. Once it so happened that one of the boys from the orphanage, I guess he was two at that time, asked for an extra piece of bread from the warde,n but in return, she lashed out at him, cursing relentlessly and beating him to a pulpseverelyy in the process with a wooden branch. I jumped and lashed out at her cruel act and bit her arms, which left a mark and later on became a ghastly scar. After that incident whenever someone did anything to piss off the warden she would take it all out on me both verbally and physically and no one else. She would torture my mere five-year-old self just to ease her frustration. But I was glad, at least others were left unscathed, that was the only positive part of that. The scars from all those beatings have faded by now, but I am still not over the traumatic phase of my life. Her verbal vomit was far worse than the physical smacking. She used to always bark, "You little piece of scum, your parents left you because you were nothing but a garbage to them. They abandon you in this dustbin and are enjoying their blissful lives without the likes of you. Do you understand, you sl*t?"