Then the call came. Sudden. Clinical. They were gone. Just… gone. A quiet exit, much like my own, but far more final. There was a small, almost imperceptible tremor in my chest. A decade of anger, resentment, and righteous indignation struggled with a flicker of something else – grief? Regret? I pushed it down. They made their bed, I thought, a bitter taste in my mouth. I went back for the funeral, a stark, sterile affair. No tears from me. Just a heavy sense of obligation.
Afterward, the lawyer called me in. There wasn’t much left, a modest estate. But there was a box. A small, wooden box, worn smooth with age. “Your parent wanted you to have this,” the lawyer said, his voice soft, almost apologetic. I opened it, my fingers tracing the aged wood. Inside, nestled on a faded velvet lining, was a single, yellowed photograph. It was a picture of a child. A little girl, perhaps three or four, with bright, mischievous eyes and a gap-toothed smile. She looked… familiar. Disturbingly so. My stomach dropped. I flipped the photo over, my heart beginning to pound a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Continue reading…
Continue READING
