I am six years old. I am at the school gate waiting for my mother. She is late. The other children are collected one by one, but I am left behind.
A lady approaches me.
"Are you from Nazareth House?" she demands.
Nazareth House is the name of my school. I know that. I nod.
She directs me to a small group of children standing in line.
Heather, the short, black-haired girl, protests.
"She doesn't belong with us!"
The lady rebuffs her.
"She knows if she comes from Nazareth House!"
The line of children set off.
I bring up the rear.
Halfway down the road I spot my mother on the opposite side of the road.
I run to her.
That was how I escaped being carried off to the orphanage.