I focus on the rhythm of my foot hitting the floor. Anxiety has gripped me ever since my father called me for the first time in three years to say his brother was coming to pick me up so I could live with him in Mexico.

I immediately got nervous, I don't even speak spanish, I don't even know that uncle, but I quickly got used to it, anything is better than staying in this orphan shelter knowing I'm not an orphan.

And I miss my father. It will be nice to move back in with him, but even that thought makes me anxious.

I was fourteen when he bolted, leaving me in this shit hole.

Yesterday was the first time he had called me since then to let me know that a certain Aaron, who is my uncle I never knew, will be coming to pick me up.

According to him, we will spend a week on the road until we get there, since if we went by plane we would raise suspicion. Although I used a false identity (Hello, Anna) for years I thought it would be better not to question it.

He apologized and said he'll make up for the lost years, that I'm going to like Mexico. I thought it was nice of him not to let me be thrown in the streets on the moment I turn eighteen, since they would.

I sigh as I adjust the switchblade my mom gave me a long time ago on my thigh, underneath my shorts.

Spending a week alone with an unknown man makes me apprehensive even though he's my uncle. I will not let my guard down.

I check my backpack for the tenth time in the last hour.

Everything is still in the same place.

The few clothes I have left, which is surprising considering the fact that my father is rich, my scribbling notebook that I always carry with me, a bottle of water which was a present from Sophia, some money I earned doing odd jobs, my mother's farewell letter, and a few other things that are precious to me.

I clutch my backpack to my back.

She is old but she is also precious to me. It was a gift from my dad when I was a kid and it's mine.

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It's good to know that these things belong to me, because I feel like I don't belong to anyone. I try not to think about it.

I belong to my father, I think. And before, him and my mother, before she left. Her words still echo in my head, she always told me not to follow my father's path.

She didn't love him anymore before she left.

I remember their fights that always looked so serious despite them always showing up all over each other afterwards. I turned a blind eye on my mother injuries.

Until one day she disappeared. I remember my father's expression, pure anger. She had already planned her escape for a while. She gave me my switchblade knife and a farewell letter before she left.

I wonder how she is today, I don't think my dad found her. How would it be if she had taken me with her. But I know it's useless, she didn't take me.

The bell rings indicating the time to go to school and I take one last look at my room - which wasn't even mine - before leaving.

Peeling walls, leaking roof, two bunk beds, a chest of drawers and a window. I feel a bittersweet feeling, it's rubbish but it's where I lived for three years.

Clusters of teenagers, some my age and some younger, meet in the living room on their way out and I soon follow.

I don't have any friends there.

I had, some time ago. As soon as I got here I met Sophia, she was my roommate and we became fast friends, which is rare for me. I fondly remember her brown eyes, long curly hair and smile that was almost always present on her face.

She was the only good thing about this place and my life for two years. But she was adopted as soon as she turned seventeen.

We promised to keep in touch but soon daily messages became cold. Seeing her adapting so well without me hurt me in a way and I ended up pushing her away.

I didn't want to be the only thing left of the ugliest part of her life.

Maybe I still check her social media every day and I'm still happy for her. It's not always that they want to adopt teenagers, in fact it's almost never.

People here don't like me.

Especially my roommates, who tried to pester me at all costs when I got here, after I threatened them with my switchblade they stopped pestering me and started to just ignore me, which is for the best, I guess.

Following the crowd of people, I was soon outside the shelter, we went on foot to the school that was close by. Not much security, I think they're relieved when someone doesn't come back because it's one less mouth to feed.

I passed the gate when I saw a man across the street.

He definitely looked like my dad, and a lot like me too.

Tall, brown hair who was a little long, full beard and blue eyes, smoking a cigarette while looking for someone among the people I was in the middle of.

My father had never mentioned him, I didn't even know I had an uncle. I grab my switchblade that's snug against my thigh, under my shorts, and I cross the street, heading toward him.

He watches me cross the street, his blue eyes lowering until they meet mine, and I try to sound brave when I say,

— Aaron, right?