The hardest thing in the world is to say good-bye.

Day 9

We finished getting running water today. That in itself is a great accomplishment here, but it had another sort of satisfaction in it. To see Mama's face when she turned it on and see it work, and to see that they are so proud to have this running water.

We played with the kids all day, knowing that it was the last regular day at the orphanage. We laughed as much as we could, smiled as much as our mouths could handle, and hugged people until we had to let go.

I got more stories today. The two of them link together.

My two boys, Houen and Heang, are cousins. Houen is 15 years old, and Heang is 12.

They both came to the orphanage in 2001, when Houen was 4 years old, and Heang had just turned 2. They lived by themselves, on the streets of Phnom Penh, taking care of one another as best as they could. They begged for everything; food, clothes, money. They were not even old enough to be in school.

At that age, I was with my parents constantly. Under their care, with a constant supply of everything that I needed. Houen and Heang lived with what they might be able to get each day, which may have been nothing. After Houen finished telling me this, I asked if he was happy right now. Here, in the orphanage. He replied with a smile, and a yes. It was a sincere smile, and I know that he is truly happy where he is.

Day 10

It started out as a bittersweet day. We were so excited to be going to the orphanage and give them our hugs and love, but I was sad to be driving up, because it would be the last time we would drive up to the orphanage that has become our family.

We arrived, and carried the party supplies into the office. We quickly brought out craft supplies, balloons, and silly string. We were filling up balloons with air and water for at least an hour, and had "volleyball" with balloons for the next half hour. The kids began getting ready for their show, and the girls put on makeup for everyone who performed, even the boys. And the show began.

I have never seen something so cute and amazing. The boys did a dance that was sort of a more modern dance, skinny jeans, Bieber flips and all. Then the girls did a traditional dance. They were all so good and beautiful and graceful, and I couldn't keep my eyes away from their costumes. Gold headdresses, silk wraps, they looked so good.

Then we ate. The kids ate fried chicken, lettuce, cucumbers, carrots, some sort of sauce, rice, and milk, and for dessert: doughnuts. They loved it. Smiles were passed around the table. I smiled too, because I knew it would be a happy-sad time for the rest of the night.

The weather imitated our feelings. It was raining, but the sun still shone through. We were crying and wailing on the inside, but somehow found a way to be genuinely happy and smiling on the outside.

As soon as it stopped raining, the dance party started. Soon, though, it sort of broke off into volleyball, dance partying, and arts-and-crafts. It wound down, and we went into the office to bring out the glow supplies, as it was getting darker. Glow balloons, glow sticks, everything glow, complete with party hats and noise-makers. The kids loved it. Then we parted, showing our biggest present of the day. A huge frame, filled with a collage of pictures of us and the kids, and our time there. By then, it was around 7:00. We left around 8:00.

I don't know who started, or when, but the sadness began there. To see the boys cry, who said they wouldn't, made me cry harder. To see Ava in her huddle, with her closest family there, crying as hard as she ever has. And the hug that must have lasted a half-hour between me and Houen. He said he wouldn't cry. We both were crying our eyes out. How could we leave these children that were our family?

Heang. Heang. He gave me the best gift I have ever gotten in my entire life. A package, filled with a pencil, an eraser, a card, and a photograph. I will keep this photograph forever. It is of my two boys, Heang and Houen, doing a dance, both laughing and smiling as big as I've ever seen. Filled with joy.

None of us were very joyous that night. Even my baby boy, Roon, caught on eventually. Crying, with his green balloon wrapped around his hand, I held him in my arms. He hugged me for the last time, before I never saw him again. He left. To go back to his mother, and I never got to say good-bye.

In the tuk-tuk, we never stopped hugging our family. My brothers, Houen and Heang, ran with us as hard and long as they could. I held their hands until I could not anymore. I waved until their glowing lights couldn't be seen to us anymore. And it began to rain. As we cried, the world cried with us. As we passed parties on the street, laughter, and smiles, I asked myself this question over and over. How does life continue when you are so sad and heartbroken? I will never know the answer to my question.

I did hear something that made me feel almost guilty for being so sad. "Don't cry because you are leaving, smile because you have been there." But I couldn't smile. Not through my tears. Not as I tried to calm myself in the tuk-tuk. Not as I listened to my friends cry.

I will never, never forget these children. They have a special place in my heart, and I can't ever tell them enough how much I love them. The hardest thing in the world is to say good-bye.