It was a cold winter night. The snow was gracefully blanketing the streets. I held his hand as we made our way down the street. His blonde mane was peppered white until he jumped into another snow pile. Then it all lifted, creating a halo around him. His childlike smile shone with the same brilliance as the snow. He was happy.
But that was seven years ago.
Sitting in this waiting room is slowly turning into my own purgatory. The four asylum white walls around me did little to encourage me. They seem determined to squash my spirits. I know this wasn’t going to be easy. I don’t know if he wanted to see me. I don’t know if he’ll want to speak to me.
There was a small knock on the door. Not that they needed to, I was the visitor. But I appreciated the warning. This was it.
The door creaked.
I flashed back to that winter night. How quickly his smile turned sorrow. How loud his mournful cry was.
The door opened wide. There he stood, older, taller, but still the same blonde hair.
“Hi Stephen. It’s Mommy.”
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