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❁☎A happy memory/A memory of their family or parents
A seven year old Aster Ferreria bounced excitedly on the balls of her feet, occasionally standing on her tiptoes in an effort to peek over the counter. Her father was talking with the kind-looking woman while writing something down on what seemed like an enormous stack of papers for the young girl. Light green eyes moved to large white double doors where her mother had disappeared into for more than half an hour now.
She didn’t know what was taking so long. She wanted to meet her now.
“Papa,” she began, inching closer to her father. “How much longer?”
No sooner than the words left her mouth did the double doors creak open. Aster’s attention immediately went to the door, eyes wide with a bright smile as she watched the small brown-haired girl. A pout seemed permanently etched on the brunette’s face as she reluctantly allowed herself to be taken to the counter.
Aster, however, did not allow the girl - no, her younger sister - to bring down her mood. She bounded happily towards the young girl and engulfed her in a hug. The younger girl struggled against her hold, but Aster simply smiled happily and held on tighter. It didn’t take long until Aster felt small hands on her back.
She finally released the girl, the bright smile still painted on her lips. “Hello! I’m Aster. I’m going to be your big sister from now on!”
The younger girl opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, the woman at the counter piped up. “You better not say anything horrible, Rosie. These are nice people, and they’re doing good for you. Don’t be the ungrateful brat that you are.” The woman sneered, and Aster barely saw her father reel back.
For the seven year old, the woman’s beautiful image from before transformed. She imagined the woman with horrible horns and a forked tongue.
Aster grabbed her sister’s hand and stood in front of her. “Don’t talk to her like that, you big meanie!”
“Yes, Mrs. Holland, I would appreciate if you didn’t speak like that to my daughter,” her father spoke up in a tone that Aster only ever heard when he spoke to their neighbor about their dog that liked to poop in front of their house.
Aster felt her hand being squeezed and she turned her attention away from her parents who had began to tersely sign the paperwork necessary. “What is it, Rosie?”
The girl visibly flinched, and Aster felt panic rise up her chest. “Please don’t call me that. The kids in the shelter make fun of me because of that name.”
She nodded, as seriously as a seven year old could. “What do you want me to call you then?”
This seemed to give the younger girl pause before she ducked her head and avoided Aster’s intent gaze. “I... I read Sleeping Beauty yesterday. The princess was called Briar Rose.”
Aster beamed as she took the girl into her arms again. “Okay! We’ll call you that. Briar! You’re Briar, my little sister!”
A beat and tiny hands clutching at the fabric on Aster’s back before... “Thank you, big sis.”