The first thing I saw was the top of their heads. I was looking through my second-floor bedroom window; they were walking towards the front door of our house in Makati City, Philippines. It was three days before Christmas 1996 and I was feeling more charitable than Mother Teresa. After years of watching television shows about poor orphans, I was finally going to have two inside my house.

Virgie was ten, a year younger than I was. She was pretty and didn’t look like a poor girl at all. I never had a sister, and the moment I saw her I decided that she would be mine. In my bedroom, I lent Virgie dolls, told her secrets and taught her ballet steps. She watched the same TV shows as I did and joined me when I brooded over things she wasn’t completely aware of.

The rest of my family became deeply engrossed with Orly. At seven years old, he was cuter and more cuddly. He slept in my parents’ bed along with my 12-year-old brother Carl, who acted more like a seven-year-old himself.

With four kids, there was more laughter and more teasing. Car rides were a tight squeeze and trips to the supermarket became more of an adventure. Virgie and Orly were easily excited by new toys and clothes, and their happiness about little things rubbed off on us.

They were only supposed to stay for three days. The day after Christmas, we were to drive them back to the orphanage. My family and I tried packing as much activity as we could into that short period, but by the end of Christmas Day, we decided that it was not enough. We were having too much fun.

A friend of my mother who took part in the same “share-your-home” programme told us that she would be able to get an extension for her Christmas kids. My mother called the orphanage and asked for three more weeks. And that was that; we had three additional weeks with Orly and Virgie.

As the days passed, talk about adopting Orly and Virgie began. My parents were seriously considering it. That’s when I realised that my life might change forever; that the family of four I had always known might cease to exist.

I started noticing that my mother hugged Orly more than she hugged me. When my parents arrived home from somewhere, they would first seek out Orly, not me. And then there were the little gifts, purchases that I began looking at with envy.

Before Orly and Virgie arrived, I received all the attention I could ever want. Now I was undeniably jealous, and all brattiness broke lose.

I devised elaborate plans to make Orly feel miserable, from treating him with silence to scolding him for the littlest things. I shared my woes with Virgie, and she said that she too resented the way my parents seemed to favour Orly. Looking back, I realise she was trying to please me, but I was thankful to have a sidekick.

Orly was oblivious to my schemes. Frustrated, I settled for a new tool: withdrawal. During the last few days of their stay, I transformed from the world’s most hyperactive child to the quietest. I kept a straight face when the rest of my family was laughing. I stopped talking to my parents, stopped hugging them, and walked away when they showed the slightest affection for Orly. I took great satisfaction in the looks of guilt, uncertainty and confusion on my parents’ faces.

This tactic worked. My parents stopped talking about adoption. At the end of the third week, we drove Orly and Virgie back to the orphanage. Orly was in tears as we said goodbye. I told him we’d be back to visit soon, and we might even come to get them for good. It was a lie, of course. I never wanted to see them again.

When I got home I felt like I had my old life back. After a few days, Virgie called, asking how things were. I sensed that she wanted to come back. She asked for my mother’s work number and though I knew it by heart, I didn’t give it to her. More phone calls followed that month, and then they stopped.

Ten years later, my mother told me that Virgie did get hold of her office number. They made numerous phone calls, begging her to adopt them. She wanted to, she said, but my father was afraid for me. If I couldn’t handle a few weeks with them, how was I supposed to endure a lifetime?

It has been 13 years. Orly would be 20 now, Virgie 23. I was an immature 11-year-old, I had an excuse. But the night my mother told me about their desperate phone calls, the guilt cut through my insides. I wondered how my immaturity changed their lives.

If we had adopted them, would they have been better educated, more comfortable, more loved? Would I have eventually loved having two more siblings? Would I have hated it? Would they have turned out to be professionals or rebellious delinquents? Did I save my family from trouble and heartache, or did I deny them a more enriched life? Maybe whatever happened was supposed to be that way. Or maybe not.

Orly and Virgie have disappeared. I searched for their orphanage, but it doesn’t seem to exist now. I called its affiliate centres and when they asked who I was looking for, I could only give the names Orly and Virgie. It occurred to me that I never even bothered to ask their last names.

My only hope of making contact with them is if one day, walking along a street, a man would in some vague way recognise me. Maybe he would approach and tell me that I seem familiar. I’d look into his eyes and say, “Why yes, we’ve met. I’m from the family that promised salvation but never followed through.” And I’d tell him, “Orly, I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

ANNA TOLENTINO, NOW 24, graduated from De La Salle University last year and has been working in advertising in Manila. She still lives with her parents.