This story was written on June 4, 2020 for my Creative Writing class. If you by chance recognize this story from school, please don't disclose my real name. I will report you for giving out personal information without consent.

When I was five years old, I remember bounding toward the door to check the mailbox for a very important package. My mom was on my heels, trying to keep me somewhat calm as she went out to get the box, then brought it in to me. I was more excited for what was inside the box than maybe anything else in my entire life at the time.

The surprise? Two small plastic jars full of tiny caterpillars, crawling around and munching greedily on the brown resin that was their food. My mom told me that someday they would become painted lady butterflies. My face was in a huge grin as I set the caterpillars near the windowsill, and day after day, I watched them.

Several weeks passed. They shed their skin, then ate that too. I began to see the caterpillars as my friends, and looking back on it, I think it was partially because I didn't make human friends that well. Unlike people, caterpillars seemed to like me no matter what. I couldn't touch them or take them out of their jars, but I watched them. I was like their mom, taking care of them even though all the food and shelter they needed had already been provided for them.

Day after day, as the caterpillars ate away at the resin, drank the droplets of water I squeezed in from a pipette, and grew bigger and bigger, my excitement for what they would become grew stronger and stronger. I could almost imagine the day they'd sprout their wings and I could let them fly around in the house, and we could play together and be friends who didn't live in separate rooms. After all, the only reason I couldn't touch them or take them out of their jar was because they were still babies...right?

But one day, my world shook, for all of the caterpillars were hanging upside-down from the ceilings of their jars. I was alarmed, but then my mom showed me an image from a book that showed that my friends were just growing. Just like I needed sleep to become a big, strong girl, they also needed to weave their sleeping bags – which were called chrysalises, though I couldn't pronounce the name at that age – and take a long nap in order to grow their wings and become butterflies. My worry turned to even greater excitement. Soon they would have their wings, and we could play together in the living room! My mind was tickled with fantasies of them landing on my nose, flapping their tiny orange wings as if saying hello to me before flitting off to land somewhere else.

The weeks passed by in a blur. I watched the slumbering caterpillars anxiously day after day, waiting for one of them to burst from the sleeping bag with beautiful wings. And one day, it finally happened. As I sighed, one of the sleeping bags began to wiggle, shaking back and forth before dropping onto the floor, where small bits of resin still lay. I watched with wide eyes as the chrysalis burst open, and one of my friends emerged, crawling out with crumpled antennae and orange wings. A painted lady butterfly, now new and alive, though confused. I eagerly leaned in and waved a finger at it. Did my friend remember me, the person who fed it little drops of water from the pipette? How long would it be before its brothers and sisters emerged and we could play?

My mom told me to wait until their wings weren't crumpled anymore, so I did. I waited a few more days. The butterflies were flapping their wings now, and I was just as happy, running through our house and flapping my arms as if I, too, could become a butterfly. Finally, one day, my parents asked me a question that I had been waiting to hear for such a long time.

"Do you want to take the butterflies outside to play?"

I eagerly nodded and grabbed the jar, ecstasy pumping through my chest. Now was the start of our adventures. I would let them out, and perhaps they would chase me around the yard. Maybe we would play tag, or hide-and-seek, or they'd land on my shoulders and nose and hair. The possibilities to my five-year-old self at the time were endless as I unscrewed the lids of the jars and let the butterflies free.

They flew out almost instantly. I was laughing, dancing in their midst, the orange-and-black patterns on their wings a blur as they flew. But then they flew further and further out of the reach of my small hands. Confusion filled my head as I tried to reach them. Are we just playing keep-away now? Some of the butterflies flitted over the fence of my yard. Some landed in the trees above, almost taunting me. A few even headed for the roof of our house. And that was when a horrible thought hit me, though I pushed it out of my mind.

"Mommy," I said, tears welling in my eyes, "where are they going?"

My parents looked at me with confusion. "You raised them as caterpillars. Now, they're set free. They weren't going to stay forever."

The thought became a realization. They weren't my friends. We didn't have grand adventures to plan. We didn't have games to play. They were bugs. They couldn't wait to be away from me, rid of me, after I set them free. Was it something I had done wrong? Was I a bad caterpillar mom?

Many things happened since then. Every friend I had afterward left me eventually, or we drifted apart. I'd always felt different, and many years later we discovered the cause: mental illness. And as each friend dwindled away, I remembered the butterflies, almost taunting me as they spread their wings and soared to a better place. Everyone will leave you. Everyone must spread their wings and move beyond you.