It was a day like any other, except they both called me to the kitchen. Their stern looks foretold of something ominous in the air. After asking if everything was ok, they just invited me to take a sit. That's odd! My parents aren't usually like this.
"We have something to tell. But we would like to be as clear as possible that it changes nothing"
And that's exactly what you say when you want to people to not be relaxed nor at ease. I said it was high time to stop the charade and spill the beans. It isn't like I'm learning that I'm adopted
30 years later. Or am I?
Vexed looks broke the tension of the environment. By toying with the seriousness of the event, it was rendered easier. The message came smoothly.
"...how did you? You're joking, right? You and your jokes. We can't understand how you make them in the worst moments!"
Cut to the chase. You mean to tell me I'm adopted or what?
"Yes, something like that. You see we received this letter from this family who had this child that didn't match their pattern of behavior. He is dull and just likes the life in the house. There's no ambition..."
Oh, my...
It took me a moment and a deep breath to let the message sink in. Then, went right for the information I wanted to know.
Sure, we are nothing alike. And it's not even small differences. We feel like bonding is walking on top broken glass barefooted. Did you know this now or did you have any suspicious before?
"We... We always thought you were s difficult child..."
Difficult? It didn't cross your mind you did a lousy job? It doesn't matter. I won't cry over spilled milk. Who are these people? I mean what do they do. Where can I find them?
"They sent this..."
And like so, I had a envelope in my hands. It had the scent of wood and citrus fruits. And it sang to me. Like home was calling from afar.
Wasting no time, I opened it. There come the greetings from afar. A couple of musicians laying claim to a lost composition. An invitation to a house of arts. They knew what I do. They have been following my steps, but they had a rough patch for so longz they didn't dare to come looking before.
Alongside it came thanks to these parents for their troubles. They offered the chance of meeting and the opportunity to work alongside them.
No words were uttered for a while after I put the letter down.
Well, this escalated quickly. I knew something wasn't right...
"We did the best we could..."
And I'm not telling you it wasn't good, but come on. There's some room for improvement. But what about their son? I mean isn't he your true son. Don't you want to meet him?
"We would like that. But he's made a life for himself and has already expressed he doesn't care about any of this. He's happy to be out of the house of arts."
Well, if there isn't anything else to say, I think I shall take my leave.
I came around thanked both. Hugged then tightly. And made my mind to go towards the call of arts. Something was calling me.
It beckoned like a lighthouse un the dark and I felt there was a port near the light and no rocks to crash. It felt like home was near and I had been away for so long...
I have always had this weird feeling I don't belong on my family. I'm too artistic and the rest very dull. This was an interesting exercise taken from the #weekend-engagement topics and twisting it a bit. I love the idea of crib swapping. It is an interesting trope to explore the relationship between nature vs. nurture.
What you have read is of course fiction. I know I'm not adopted. I'm my mother' son. Like an exact copy of her but male and taller. This has its perks. For example, I get to rock this sweet curls your have seen before.
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