The others thought I was rich. They thought I had grown up living the high life. They thought I did not know hunger, hand-me-down clothes, or work. But I did. Although my Dad was valuable to the army, I was not. His fame was leeched, he saw minute profits for his labor. He made donations, he paid taxes, he had a company car and a company house. All that was gone the day he died.
My mother hand made my clothes. We had potato soup many nights. She had a gimp hand. Useless at factory work, she stayed home and my father took care of her. I did not grow up knowing riches. The government was a harsh employer, and I was a quiet kid who did not flaunt his father’s name to get anywhere.
But the other orphans did not know that. I walked back through the silent cold facility. I needed to request another sleeping arrangement. Maybe the blonde would be more sympathetic, seeing as she was littler and she had moved my art earlier. I went back to the guard room, a dangerous place to be, since I was out of bed.