Nobody's Favorite
Born in The Shadows, Living in The Light: My Adoptee Epiphanies, The Fight of My Life - A Serialized Memoir on Substack By Pamela A. Karanova
“There comes a point where we need to stop just pulling people out of the river. We need to go upstream and find out why they’re falling in.” ― Desmond Tutu.
Consider Reading Chapter 2. First:
“After I learned I was adopted, my search for answers began turning inward, entering sleep and dreams. A dream began visiting me so often that it felt less like imagination and more like memory. I was five years old, barefoot in a thin hospital gown, running down the maternity ward hallways of Saint Francis Hospital in Waterloo, Iowa, where I was born. This was the last place I was ever with my birth mother.” - Autonomy Under Siege
Find the full archive of chapters here: Index
Content Notice and Reader Discretion
This chapter may contain firsthand accounts of adoption and separation trauma, emotional abuse, religious coercion, childhood sexual abuse, substance use, self-harm ideation, and interactions with the juvenile justice system. These experiences are described from the author’s lived perspective and may be distressing for some readers. This work is a serialized memoir. It reflects personal memories, perceptions, and experiences and is not intended to serve as clinical, legal, or medical advice. Names and identifying details may be altered to protect privacy. Reader discretion is advised. Please proceed only if you feel emotionally safe and supported. If this content brings up thoughts of self-harm or suicide, consider reaching out to a trusted person or a professional support resource in your area before continuing.
This Substack is a supportive space. You do not have to agree with everyone here, but you do need to show up with respect. If you are not here to engage with kindness toward me and others on this platform, this will not be the place for you, and anything less will be removed. By continuing to read, you acknowledge and accept responsibility for your own emotional well-being.
Chapter 3.
Nobody’s Favorite
“Reminder: A sign of growth is being okay with not being okay.” - Yung Pueblo
Every other Friday at exactly 5:00 PM, my second life clocked in. Stanley and Louella arrived on time, as scheduled transportation, never early, never late. Precision without warmth. A shift change in the custody of two children.
Sometimes it was the blue van. Sometimes it was motorcycles, which felt wildly inappropriate for shuttling children between fractured worlds, but no one asked me. Wind in my face. Arms wrapped tight. No helmet could protect what was actually exposed. We would climb in, buckle up, and the silence would seal itself around us. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that hums. No “How’s school?” No “How are you doing?” No curiosity about who I was becoming or how the last two weeks had gone since we saw them last. No bridge between homes. No gentle reentry. Just ignition and arrival.
The van carried bodies, not conversations. It felt less like they were excited to see us and more like they were completing a biweekly obligation. A duty. A box checked. A signature at the bottom of a form that no one showed me. I sometimes wondered if they were afraid to ask questions, afraid to stir something up, afraid to attach to a child who did not fully belong to them.
Maybe that distance was intentional. Maybe not knowing me made it easier. If you never lean in, you never risk feeling the loss. Later in life, I would learn the latter is the most likely.
The hour drive to Dunkerton felt like crossing state lines between emotional climates. Cedar Rapids faded in the rearview mirror, and something quieter, more rural, more unknown crept in. The skyline flattened. Buildings gave way to open corn fields and Iowa corn farms. Stoplights surrendered to gravel roads and endless sky. If Stanley chose the route that passed a small town that had a Dairy Queen, it felt like hitting the lottery. Soft serve could temporarily smooth over almost anything. The ritual of unwrapping the cone, the cold sweetness against my tongue, the simple predictability of vanilla felt like the closest thing to comfort on that drive. For a few miles, I could just be a kid with melting ice cream instead of cargo in transit.
Sometimes the boys rode along and made dramatic announcements that Cedar Rapids smelled like crap. They were not exaggerating. Between the corn-processing plants and the lingering landfill perfume, the city had a signature scent that clung to your clothes and hair. Leaving it behind felt like shedding one layer of air for another, even if the silence in the van followed us the entire way. The quiet traveled with us like an unspoken rule. Even as the scenery changed, the emotional temperature inside the vehicle rarely did.
Stanley and Louella’s house rose out of cornfields that seemed to stretch straight into the horizon, like we had driven to the edge of the known world. Acres of green in summer, brittle gold in fall, white sheets of snow in winter. The sky there felt bigger, almost intimidating in its openness. The place was spotless. Not just cozy and clean. Inspection clean. Counters cleared. Floors gleaming. Pillows aligned as if measured with a ruler. Structured down to the minute. Dinner at 5:00 PM sharp, no negotiations. Plates placed with precision. Chairs pulled in evenly. It felt like stepping into a system that ran on invisible rails, a household governed by routine rather than emotion.
Zara and I fought less there, which fascinated me. It was not because we suddenly transformed into loving sisters under the glow of Midwestern sunsets. It was because Anita was not in the room conducting the emotional orchestra. Drama has a ringleader. Remove the conductor, and the volume drops. Just like that. The air felt cooler. Calmer. Almost reasonable. Even my body seemed to unclench a notch, as if it recognized the absence of chaos before my mind could name it.
But calm did not mean warm.
Stillness is not the same thing as safety. Order is not the same thing as connection.
Mealtimes operated with military precision and courtroom silence. The food appeared on time, plates aligned, chairs tucked in. Silverware placed just so. Napkins folded. Glasses filled to the same invisible measurement. It looked like discipline from the outside. Respectable. Structured. But beneath that order was tension you could taste before you ever lifted a fork.
And then came the rule that was never formally announced but violently enforced. No talking. If one of us so much as whispered, Stanley’s hand would slam against the table with a crack that made your spine lock up. The sound echoed in your bones before it registered in your ears. “Do you want the belt?” he would bark, as if conversation were a criminal offense. As if curiosity, or laughter, or a simple question about passing the salt were insubordination.
