Whenever she saw a mother with her child, Beatrice felt angry. Not sad, but angry. Why did that child deserve a parent? Was it special in some way that she wasn’t? Beatrice quickly crossed the road, so that she wouldn’t have to walk past yet another display of sickening affection. As she hurried toward the fenced in enclosure, she tried to suppress the memory of her ninth birthday, when she had asked the director of the orphanage where her parents were. “Nobody wanted you,” the moustachioed man had said without emotion. “So now we’re stuck with you.”