Javier stood four feet in front of me, eyes narrowed into slits and nostrils flared. Clenching his jaw, he drew his right arm above and behind his head. The arm remained there for a moment, suspended like a loaded slingshot pointed directly at me. The others gathered around Javier. Like a pack of wolves they watched their alpha male, poised at the ready but not daring to act without his consent.

I was outnumbered. I braced myself against the closed door behind me. I knew that I must not, under any circumstances, allow this door to be opened. At that moment, Javier released his arm with terrible speed. I flinched at the sharp stings on my face and body.

A 10-year-old orphan had just assailed me with a barrage of broken crayons.

The others let out a battle cry. Alejandro rushed to peel my fingers from the doorknob. Carlos kicked at my shins and pounded my waist with balled fists. Natalia pinched my arms and curled her lips as though preparing to bite. I gripped the doorknob, blocking access to the patio where the fresh paint had not yet dried. That’s when a thought hit me with more force than these children could possibly muster: This is how I had chosen to spend my only vacation of the year.

It had started as a fine idea: My boyfriend and I needed a break from the mechanized pace of Silicon Valley, a break from grey cubes and pushy clients and crowded freeways. We often talked of lazy vacations in beachfront villas, but when it was time to purchase tickets, our itineraries always turned up with destinations like Cuzco and Belgrade, our packs always stuffed with hiking boots and rain jackets. This time, we chose to volunteer in Costa Rica. I committed two weeks to an orphanage, and he would spend his time across town in a nursing home.

When I reported to the orphanage the first day, my stomach quivered. I had no illusions about what kind of place an orphanage must be, but I suffered plenty of delusions about the children it would hold. I envisioned them starving for love as a bud starves for sunlight, needing only the missing ingredient to flourish. This is what I had come to believe of humans, growing as I had in the rich soil of my Midwestern youth. But I arrived to find tiny, broken people bursting with rage and sadness. And by the time the mob had pinned me to the door, wanting only to play outside rather than be trapped in this stark house that smelled of bleach, I had to consider that love might not be enough.

The orphanage was a three-bedroom house on the outskirts of a central Costa Rican city. The yard was large and scattered with secondhand toys. The seesaw’s green paint was cracked and peeling. The swings hovered above poured concrete. Ten pairs of eyes peered through the bars on the front window when I approached on my first day, and the children spilled out of the house when I entered the front gate.

At first, they fought over who would hold my hands. They raised their arms, wiggling 10 fingers in a frantic request to be picked up and held. All of them, save the toddling 1-year-old, pelted me with questions. Where was I from? What was my name? Would I be their friend? Did I have any candy in my bag? Did I bring any paper and crayons?

I was pulled in 10 directions, each child growing impatient with unhidden envy when my eyes left theirs.

They seemed like typical children, each overflowing with personality. Jonathan, the new boy, touched and spoke gently. Daniela Cristina twittered with infectious energy. I felt instantly protective of every child, but the girl with the cold look in her eyes piqued my interest. She kept her distance. It was up to me to approach her.

“Hello, love,” I said in Spanish as I kneeled before her. “I’m Tara. What’s your name?”

She pursed her lips. She twisted side to side and stared at the ground.

“I bet you’re 5. Is that right?”

She nodded, still refusing eye contact.

“Do you know how old I am? I’m 27! That’s pretty old, huh?”

She shrugged, caught my hand, and tugged me to the dilapidated swing set. Those were the only introductions necessary when I met Catalina.

Some children at the orphanage had been relinquished by parents who couldn’t care for them. Some had been removed from abusive homes. Many had been sexually abused by men, so men were not allowed inside. My boyfriend, Misho, was allowed to work there once, provided that a chaperon accompanied us. I never learned why Catalina was there.

The children often tried to hurt one another. Conflicts began as simple jealous squabbles but quickly escalated into violence that wasn’t normal child’s play. One day, Natalia became furious when another child would not hand over his crackers. Others joined in the fight, and Natalia put on a single inline skate to stomp on their hands and kick a few in the head. We volunteers tried to stop the pile-ups when were around, and I acquired a few scratches and bruises that way. I don’t know what happened when we weren’t there.

Some mothers occasionally visited the orphanage. These brief meetings usually went the same way: The child would sit on the front patio with his mother for an hour and then cling to her desperately, sobbing and swatting at hands that tried to wrench him away. He would remain inconsolable for a time after she left, and suddenly reappear in the middle of the action with a newly toughened exterior.

But things were different when Catalina’s mother came.

She visited on Fridays, so the first time I saw her was on my fifth day at the orphanage. Catalina had been more withdrawn that morning. She worked so hard at being invisible that I didn’t notice her absence until her 18-year-old mother appeared on the front step. I recognized her mother immediately—the heart-shaped face, shining black hair and pointed nose she had passed on to her daughter. But the mother was fresh faced, with bright eyes and pink lipstick.

I set out on a hunt. The tías of the house, the two women who made a living by cooking and cleaning for the children, suspected that Catalina had locked herself in the television room. A quick jiggle of the doorknob confirmed it. One tía worked a knife in the door jamb until the lock released and the door swung open to reveal Catalina, alone. She was dressed in a white cotton shirt and black corduroy overalls, curled into a trembling ball in the corner. Her face was wet with tears.

Catalina began to flail like a wild animal with its leg caught in a trap, screaming in what sounded like physical pain. The terror in her eyes was nearly too much for me to bear. But the tía, having completed her job, waddled down the hall toward the kitchen. Apparently, this task would be left to me.

I sat next to Catalina and put my hand on her back. I whispered that it was okay, but nothing was okay. She remained locked in a tight ball, unyielding to my words. That’s when I realized that no matter how much compassion I felt for this child, I was no different to her than her parents. They had professed to love her as they left her behind, and I, too, would leave her behind in just one week. The volunteers always left.

This bleak realization drove me to make as many happy memories with the children as possible—for them and for me. I learned quickly that Catalina was happiest on a swing. I would turn the swing around and around until the chain was twisted and tight. She would count to three in her high voice, suspense building with each number.

“Uno… dos… ¡tres!” I would let go, and she would giggle wildly at the delirious, dizzy feeling. “¡Ay, qué rico!”

When I returned to home base in the afternoons, the other volunteers wanted to hear my stories. They felt their assignments were boring by comparison—teaching healthy, well-adjusted kindergartners basic English phrases or playing futbol with energetic boys. I told the stories. But I couldn’t make the volunteers understand how I felt at the end of my shift. How I cried the two-mile walk home and then lay despondent in my bunk until I could get myself together and join the others at lunch.

That first weekend, I traveled with a group of volunteers to Monteverde Cloud Forest to sail above the trees on the famous canopy tour. Suspended hundreds of feet above the ground with the sound of wind in my ears, I felt the delirious feeling that Catalina must feel on the swing. But I also felt shame for being there, experiencing life while she was trapped in hers.

The following Friday brought another visit from Catalina’s mother. It was also my last day. Two weeks had gone by quickly but had so deeply rooted this child in my heart that they could have been two years.

The scene with Catalina and her mother that day was made worse by the smiling, healthy baby perched on her mother’s hip. It seemed that Catalina had a little brother who was dressed in crisp, striped overalls and matching hat.

I tried not to judge her mother, a mere child herself. But as I watched them through the window, I found in me a trace of Catalina’s rage. I steeled myself for small talk and cordiality. But when I stepped outside in a jumble of competing emotions, my words dried up. I could only hold up my camera, eyebrows arched, and let her assume that I could not speak her language.

Her eyes lit up. Sí, sí, she said, as she tossed her long hair over her shoulders, displaying the Winnie the Pooh logo on her T-shirt. She lifted Catalina into her arms and smiled sweetly at the camera. Catalina’s head hung.

I wanted to ask so many things. I couldn’t.

I stayed longer than usual that day, afraid to say goodbye. Just after lunch, I pulled Catalina aside and knelt before her.

“Catalina, do you remember what I told you—that this is my last day? I have to go back home to where I’m from.”

“I don’t care,” she spat. “Go.”

“It’s okay to care,” I told her. “I care. I’m going to miss you very much and think about you every day.” How many times had she heard this speech?

She tightened her jaw and pulled away from me. But I couldn’t put it off any longer. I hugged and kissed each child, leaving Catalina for last. When I approached her, she ran. I had no choice but to retreat down the walk and through the front gate, leaving her to her defense mechanism. In her five short years, she had already become an island. The gate clanged shut, and my eyes flooded with tears.

I was 20 feet up the road when I heard her.

“¡No se vaya!” Don’t go.

She was running along the other side of the fence. When I turned, she stopped in her tracks and stood still, meeting my gaze. I couldn’t hide my tears but I couldn’t go back, either, because I could never make this right for her—not now, not in an hour. She had somehow enriched my life, filled my heart—but I would leave the same broken girl in my wake.

I took a deep breath and released it. I smiled and blew her a kiss. And then I turned and began the long walk home.

is a freelance writer living in Cambridge, Mass. She writes regularly for the Chicago Tribune and other publications.

Note: All children’s names have been changed.

Home page photo of Arenal Volcano by Tara Swords. Story photos by Misho Ceko.