"I'm sorry honey. Maybe next time." Pat, my Social Worker, said while slamming the heavy wooden door behind her.

I couldn't help but scuff at the repeated line she tries to soothe me with after every failed interview. When will she just learn to accept the fact that no one wants me? I did when I was 7 years old. Was it hard? Yeah, it was. But holding onto the hope that someone would take me in as their own, just to have that very hope demolished by every crushing "no"; was even harder. And after being turned down by family after family, couple after couple. You start looking at the independent variables.

Was it the holes in my shoes? The tear in my hand-me-downs? The dirt under my nails or on my face? Or could it be my lack of smiling?

But after changing the variables multiple times, in multiple ways and still coming to the same conclusion. You notice the controlled variable. The one that ALWAYS remains constant. Which, in this case; the constant variable. Would be me.

Now I'm not gonna lie. I tried to change who I was to hopefully fit into 'their' fantasy of me. I tried to be happier, come across smarter. I even got into politics.( Turns out the couple didn't agree with my stance) This period was definitely my rock bottom. But see, once you realize that nothing you do will ever matter. That you are truly unlovable. It's hard to accept. In fact it took me YEARS to get over that little tidbit. However, once you accept it. It's like the world lifts off your shoulders and you can finally start being the person you were meant to be.

The only problem? I still have no idea who I'm supposed to be.

"Look Max," Pats continued, choosing to ignore my brush off- like always voice rang out as we made our way back towards the lobby. "Someone out there is looking for a girl just like you. A girl who is as sweet, caring, beautiful and as stubborn as you are." I could hear the smile in her voice. Though I sadly knew better than to get lost in her hopeful words. Pat didn't.

She truly believed them. After sixteen years, she still truly believed that she could find me a loving family. Though I still believed the complete opposite, I wasn't about to remind her that it was next to impossible for a sixteen-year-old girl to be adopted.

For Pat knew better than anyone, that everyone wants a baby. They want to experience the 'first steps' or the 'first words'. No one wants to experience the 'first teenage mood swing' or the 'first period' with their own kid. (Though I've already had mine) Let alone, having that be the first BIG event. And I honestly couldn't blame them. Even I know I'm a complete bitch when riding the 'Red Wave,' I don't even want to deal with myself during that week. So why would anyone else?

I didn't look back at Pat the whole way to the lobby. Not cause I was mad at her. No, for Pat was the closest thing I knew I'd ever have to a mother, and it wasn't her fault that no one had yet to adopt me. The true reason being, she was the kind of person who didn't hide her emotions. And having known her my whole life, and having been here in this situation everyday of my life. I knew what emotion would be swimming in those chocolate depths of hers. It was truly the only one that I couldn't stand.

Pity.

Just before we reached the opening at the end of the poorly lit hallway, that opens into the lobby, I felt a soft warm squeeze on my right shoulder. Releasing a heavy sigh, I slowly turned to face her. Knowing that she wouldn't let me take another step until I faced her. Though I still refused to meet her eyes, I focused on her red stained upturned lips instead.

Pats smile was as sweet as the words she spoke, but I could see through it. I was never going to be adopted. Not by someone that would stay constant, that is. I'll stay in the system, moving from foster home to foster home, until I'm eighteen. With Pat checking in on me from time to time. Even Pat had to realize this deep down.

I took a few deep breaths and gave myself ten seconds to crush any negative feelings that might have snuck up on me during the interview, before bottling it all up and - as Patty likes to call it- put my mask back on.

Giving a small smile and nod, Patty released my shoulder and strolled straight into the bright lobby of 'Mrs.Little's Home for Lonely Kids', to fill in Karen, the over weight receptionist, of yet another failed opportunity.

Following the steps that Patty just took, I made my way towards one of the plastic beige chairs in corner, next to a small vase of beautiful wild flowers. Most likely picked by some of the smaller children from the rusted fenced in back yard.

Leaning forward, I tried to breath in the sweet scent of nature. Only to be completely disappointed by the over whelming smell of mildew and mold.

God this place gets worse every time I return.

"Another no?" I heard Karen ask Patty.

I never really liked Karen. She never did anything for me, other than to be sure to file a report every time I did something that she didn't like. And trust me, my file most likely takes up one of the big file drawers that line the wall behind her. In my defense, how was I supposed to know that leaving a bunch of five year old's alone with fireworks was a bad idea? I didn't give them a lighter. And what five year old knows how to make fire? The answer. Apparently, one of the six I left the bag with. But again, in my defense I was twelve and it was the fourth of July.

Sighing, I plopped my chin in my hand and watched as Pat went on to make small talk.

"Sadly. I thought they would be the one." I watched Pat shake her head as she filled out the paperwork that rested on the deck.

"Eh. She's a trouble mak-" I tuned out. Not needing to hear how much of a disappointment I truly am. Especially not from an overweight secretary. Plus, I knew that Pat would shut her up for me. Good old Pat was always the Momma bear. Any kid here who needed a minute mom, she was the one you could count on. Out of every kid here, I'd know. She was my Momma bear on multiple occasions.

I glared at her waist long blonde hair that blew in the breeze coming from the dust covered squeaking ceiling fan that should have been changed at least thirty years ago. Her small frame made her look tiny and weak, an easy target. Especially when she wore her lose fitting work clothes. But if you look closer, or see her in her casual clothes, the muscle that this women has built would make anyone want to bet on her in a fight. Granted anyone with three kids would need to be fit, so when I learned she had six. I understood why she was so buff.

I couldn't help but smile at the stories Patty would tell me about her kids. How her daughters; Hannah, Kaylee, and Claire; would all dress up in her fancy dresses and have a tea party in the mud every Sunday. She would complain about how she had to get the dresses dry cleaned once a week, but Patty never came across as mad about having to pay the extra money. As long as the girls had fun, she never seemed to care. Granted, if I had a husband who was a big CEO of some big company; I wouldn't care if my kids dragged my wedding gown through tar every Friday either.

Though Pat has told me about her husband Ben, she never told me exactly what company he ran. Though I suspect it was a large industry. She never revealed much about him, except his first name being Ben and would mention him here and there in her stories. And from what she told me, he was a great dad and (according to Patty) was a prankster himself.

Either way, Pat mostly kept her family stories on her kids. My favorite stories were when she would complain about her three boys. Cole, James, and Travis. I didn't like those stories because they made Pat upset. No. I liked them because I loved hearing about all the trouble they would get themselves into, yet somehow find a way out of it. Like the time James and Cole duck taped Travis to the garage door, so every time anyone would hit the garage door button Travis got a free ride. Patty went on about how concerned she was, cause she didn't know how long he'd been there and none of the boys ever revealed any information about their pranks. Even if they were the butt of the joke. They always stuck together. Which annoyed Patty to no end, due to the fact that she didn't know who to discipline. However, Ben blamed the victim. In this case Travis, for being dumb enough to let his brothers duck tape him to the garage door in the first place.

The three musketeers, Patty would say. And even though she was worried, you could hear the undertone of joy and love in the way she explained the three trouble makers.

Pat's stories only got better throughout the years. Instead of the girls playing tea party, they would end up trying to sneak out and meet up with their boyfriends. How her daughter Kaylee had moved the trampoline one night, right under her bedroom window, so she could jump from her window onto the trampoline. Which was a fun story to listen to, especially since she didn't think to calculate the amount of force she would hit the trampoline at. Which caused her to fly into the pool causing a big splash and waking the family up.

It was funny, but once again I'd rather listen to the story of James and Travis hanging Cole from a basketball hoop by his underwear off the back deck, for over three hours. Or how, when their father came home he told Cole (who was still hanging by his underwear) that if his chores weren't done he was going to be grounded for a week and clean the whole house. Which of course his chores weren't done. In fact, Pat swears his brothers made it worse for him by using thirty different cups just for water, before putting them in the sink.

Pats story made me feel, for just a moment, like I was apart of her family. I heard so many, that I used to pretend that every bully that picked on me was my three brothers; Cole, James, and Travis; just being assholes, and once I would seek my revenge and get into trouble. I could literally hear what Ben would have said. "Max put pudding in your bra? Why did you leave it somewhere so easy for her to obtain it?" However, Ben wasn't the one who dissed out of the discipline. It was always Patty. Not my foster parents or friends who pretended to be my parents. No, it was always Patty, and my idiot brothers/bullies weren't the ones who got in trouble. I was always at fault. Even when I didn't do anything wrong but simply get revenge, I would get the full force of Pat's "You can do better than this" speech. And though I loathed that speech, I mostly just went with it. Seeing as how Patty has been the only thing that was constant in my life, I didn't want to push my luck - to much.

I was two years old when I first met her. I had nothing when I came here to 'Mrs.Little's Home for Lonely Kids.' Having been dumped on a random person's doorstep, with no birth certificate, social security card, blanket, pillow, or even a note. Just the clothes on my back -that were tearing in place- and covered in mud and street filth. The person who found me wanted nothing to do with me. They opened the door, called Child Services and then closed it. Leaving me on the porch on a cold rainy night in January. Patty was the one who came and collected me off that freezing porch step.

She was required to bring me straight to the orphanage. No one knew anything about me, having no official information to go off of, so Patty was the one who named me Max. To this day I have no idea why she called me that, and I didn't bother asking. Anyway, throughout the years Pat made sure that I had clothes on my back, food to eat, and someone to rely on if I needed anything. She was the one who helped me with my first 'girl problem'. I thought I was dying, and I locked my self in a bathroom at one of my foster homes, and wouldn't come out until Patty came.

Pat bought me ice cream and rented hardcore action movies for me when I had my first heartbreak. She made sure I got good -well good enough- grades in school, and when I was ten she got me my first cell phone, telling me that if I ever needed her I was to just hold down the number two. No matter what time, day or night, she would answer. She's even paid for all my soccer gear, and team cost since I was four years old. Patty and her family will always be the happy ending I never got.

Even though Patty isn't truly allowed to tell me personal information about her family, I've over heard some of her personal conversations, whether between her and Karen, or her being on the phone. I was able to gather enough information to hypothesize their ages.

Her husband, Ben, is about 47 now. Claire is around 4 or 5, Hannah and Kaylee are respectively, 23 and 24. Both moved out and apparently both are married, and have been since their teens. Which is weird that Pat and Ben would let their kids marry so young, based off the way Pat threatens me about marrying only when I'm 30. But hey, I'm not judging. Much. James is the oldest of the boys, being about 21 or 20. Then Travis who is a few years or so younger than James. Finally, Cole who is younger than Travis. Though I don't know by how much.

Though Pat speaks highly of all her kids, lately she hardly ever talks about her oldest son. And when she does, there's always this sense of sadness or anger. It started about a year or two ago. She would tell me those crazy stories, but James would no longer be apart of them. It was like he just fell off the map. Then she would bring him up when I would ask for a specific story, and she would literally choke on his name. Which I took as a que to only request stories that didn't involve him.

But even with all their struggles and unsociable ways, I've always been jealous of Pats kids. I used to dream on more than one occasion, that she was my true mother. That she would be there for me after I turned eight-teen. That I wouldn't have to worry about facing the world alone. But the downside about dreaming is that eventually;

You have to wake up.