When I was 11 or so, something had reminded me of my parents. I decided to see if they lived at the same house they did when I was a small child and maybe even talk to them.
The house looked the same, though a few vines had started growing up the sides. I crept up to a window and peeked in, curious as to what I would find.
Sitting at a small wooden table was Mama, Papa, and a girl a few years younger than me.
She looked exactly like me, and it took a few minutes to realize this girl was my younger sister. She and Mama were chatting, while Papa ate.
The pain in my chest was overwhelming, and I did my best to hold back tears; boys are strong and do not cry. This girl was obviously well taken care of, well fed, and not forgotten. It made me wonder, had I stayed, would they have gotten better with me? Would I be sitting there, teasing my sister about one thing or another while Mama scolded us?
Before it became unbearable, I turned around and started to walk away. I was vaguely aware of a door opening and shutting and footsteps behind me. Suddenly, my shirt was being tugged on, and I turned around. The young girl from inside looked up at me shyly.
“I saw you in the window,” she whispered. “You looked sad. Mama said I should give you this.” She held up a small loaf of bread, and I took it. It was fresh, still warm, which surprised me.
“Th-thanks…” I stared at the bread because I could not bare to look at her face, so similar to mine. “Hey, do you…” I glanced up, but she was gone.
I swallowed hard, took one last look back, and walked away for good. That night, the tears I had held back ran freely as I ate my Mama’s bread, wishing I could go back and beg them to let me come home. Instead, I prayed that my sister have a good life and does not take it for granted.
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