It had been snowing for a while. Because it was Christmas Eve, the flakes fell undisturbed.

Families could be seen through open-curtained windows, carrying on traditions passed down through generations.

The crunching of the snow under her boots was loud and sharp. The wind swirled and danced. It swept down, grabbed bits of frozen ice crystals from under her boots, and carried them off on unseen wings. It raced back to bite her cheeks, pink from excitement, and left a dusting of snow on her eyelashes.

The sound was almost unbearable compared to the quiet that surrounded them. It was louder with each step forward.

The bright red boots she wore were not hers. Although she secretly wanted them, they were really too big. Snow blew in over the tops and quickly melted. It made a sucking noise with each step she took.

Her pant legs rode up so that the tops of the boots rubbed her tender skin. They each made a ring of fire, not quite felt yet. Later, they would sting and bring back the memories of this night.

Snow fell softly, yet heavily. It made a blanket of white that hid the empty porches and grass-bare yards of winter.

The wind blew around her head. It crept into the tiny spaces between her tattered coat and bare skin. Her fingers were already stiff, just moving from her pocket to the open collar of her coat. She fumbled to button her collar against the wind.

She found, and then remembered, that the button had popped off earlier. It had rolled away in escape, under and around the table leg. It finally came to rest near the sofa.

Sweeping the floor with her hand, she had found the lost button. She also found dirt, dust, and the mess from other children. Without giving it a thought, she dropped the found treasure into her coat pocket.

The child shivered. She looked up at the woman who had simply shown up thirty minutes earlier. Although she could not bring it to the surface of her memories, something was comfortable about the woman at her side.

Reaching out, the woman took the little girl’s hand. Their arms swung in rhythm with their steps. It was a tiny gesture that filled the young child with an overwhelming joy. The joy was more a memory than real. She looked at their two hands together and wasn’t sure which one was hers.

Could this really be her mother?

It seemed all the other kids had one, or at least knew they had one.  They talked about how their mothers would come and get them one day.

Stealing a sideways look at the woman, the little girl thought, “She could be my mother if she wants.”

She’d been in foster care for longer than she could remember. It was really all that she knew. She was eighteen months old when she was found on the streets of Omaha, abandoned and alone. She became a ward of the State.

Her grandmother heard that she was in foster care. She tried to get custody of the little girl. But because of her age and other family problems, the court system felt the little girl would be better off in foster care. She could visit her grandmother, but not stay the night.

Foster parents in the early 50s did not have to care for their foster children during the holidays. They would often have them moved the week before Christmas to a temporary foster home or the local orphanage.

This way they could spend the holidays with just their family, without having another mouth to feed or gift to buy. They didn't give a thought to the feelings of a small child without a family of her own.

Most times, the child didn't know they would be moved until there was a knock on the door.