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"What a conniving bitch" was all I could think. When I had turned eighteen in June my foster mother could have kicked me to the curb but she hadn't. Relief first struck me then suspicion. My foster mother wasn't exactly Mother Theresa, there had to be a catch. It wasn't obvious at first what was really going on. The condition for my remaining was simple, I had to pay my way. Plus she would need a little for rent. No problem.

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