The first orphans I loved were the Boxcar Children. In first grade, I inhaled the—many!—stories of those four scrappy siblings whose parents were conveniently out of the picture and imagined myself into their shoes. Precocious and in need of little help from adults, the Aldens could seemingly do anything—make beds from pine needles, dam up a stream to make a swimming hole, find the ingredients for stew in the forest. Their lives were thrilling, in part because they conjured a primary fear of childhood, the fear of losing the people who are most central to your life. But, as is so often the case with fears, that worry is also very much a wish. What child doesn’t want their parents to disappear and leave them to their own devices even as they are terrified of that possibility?
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