A memoir
The home where the three of them grew up now only housed myself. It is filled with the pictures of a foreign family; two parents unknown, coddling a child whom I have never met, nor will I ever.
He left. Angry, confused, and eighteen; the boy took flight, not abandoning the nest but plunging out of it returning only to mend shattered wings. "I stare at a house that resembles nothing," two gravestones marked "Mr. and Mrs. Somebody". Remorse convinced him to stop locking the doors; tonight was the night. Creaking stairs, slamming window sills, uncertainty; my only wish was that he would hurry up. Step by step, the man arrived in the door frame of what was once his childhood sanctuary, where I supposedly lay in slumber.
I looked up at the replicated man, and we held one another in our arms.