A little boy stood on my porch, barefoot and dirty, shivering in the porch light.
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He wore a faded blue T-shirt with a rocket ship on it.
The same shirt my son was wearing when he went to the hospital.
He looked up at me with wide brown eyes.
Same freckles. Same dimple on the right cheek. Same cowlick that never stayed down no matter how much water I used.
“Mommy?” he whispered. “I came home.”
“Who… who are you?” I managed.
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My heart just… stopped.
I grabbed the doorframe.
“Who… who are you?” I managed.
He frowned like I’d told a bad joke.
“It’s me,” he said. “Mom, why are you crying?”
Hearing him call me Mom hit me like a punch.
“I… my son… my son is dead,” I said. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
“But I’m right here,” he whispered. “Why are you saying that?”
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