I found it while cleaning out the closet.
An old photo, creased at the corners. It depicted a little boy sitting on a chair in the middle of a wallpapered kitchen. Blue eyes, blond hair. I flipped it over and checked the date on the back. November 14, 1996. So me, when I was four.
Except…
The kid didn’t look quite like me.
The photo was grainy, so it was hard to tell for sure. But the eyes were a little too wide set. The smile was too toothy.
So, a friend? But it was definitely my mom’s kitchen. Floral wallpaper with pink rosettes, the old oak table. And the kid so closely resembled me… wouldn’t I remember having a friend that looked like he could be my twin brother?
And why isn’t it with the other family photos?
I’d found it in Mom’s closet. She had several photo books, all populated with childhood photos. Documenting the most insignificant events, from baking cookies to baseball games.
So why wasn’t this photo with the rest?
Why was it hiding on the top shelf of my mom’s closet, tucked under a hatbox?
I walked out into the family room, grabbed the photo album labeled 1995-1998. Paged through it until I got to a good, clear photo of myself at four.
Then I pulled the photo from my pocket and compared the two.
It wasn’t a great comparison. My head was tilted to the side, and his was straight; I was wearing a hat, he wasn’t. Still–the difference was unmistakable. His grin was wider, toothier. His skin was paler. His eyes were wider set.
Yet, the differences were subtle. To anyone but me, they’d probably look like the same person.
“What are you doing?”
I turned to see my mom, standing in the doorway, carrying a large box.
I hesitated, wondering if I should bring it up to her. She had enough on her mind, with my stepdad passing away and the big move. “I found this photo. Who is that?”
She set the box down and walked over. “That’s you! When you were four or five.” She smiled. “Aww, how sweet. Look at you.”
“But it doesn’t…” I hesitated again, knowing I would sound crazy. “It doesn’t, um, look exactly like me, does it?”
“Yeah, you were a goofy-looking kid.” She laughed. “You got a lot better-looking as you aged.”
“No, I mean, that photo doesn’t look like I did when I was a kid. Look, see.” I held up the photo of me in the Red Sox cap side-by-side with the photo of the boy in the kitchen.
“I think they look identical,” she said.
“No, they don’t.”
“Maybe it’s the hat. Hey, can you help me in the attic? There’s a lot of stuff up there.”
“Sure. I’ll be there in a second.”
She smiled at me and turned away. I listened to her bare footsteps recede on the carpet. Then I snapped the photo album shut and put it back.
I tucked the photo in my pocket.
Then I walked back into my mom’s room and opened the closet.
There were more. When I took down the hatbox to search under it, the top came off–revealing an entire trove of photographs. I picked up a few of them–and my heart dropped.
A kid hunched over a birthday cake with four candles, smiling. Me. Except… not me. The same toothy grin, the same wide set blue eyes.
A kid standing in the front yard, pointing to a frog. My front yard. Again, not me.
And then there was a photo that made my heart stop.
A photo of my bed. I still remembered those covers, with the sports cars on them. The pillow with the wheel on it. The car lamp. But there, sitting on the bed–
Not one little boy.
Two.
“Adam?” my mom’s voice came from above.
I stared at the photo, frozen. Me… sitting next to a little boy that looked almost exactly like me. A twin? A brother? I had no memory of this kid. All my life, I’d believed I was an only child.
“Adam!”
The stack of photos was a few inches thick. There was no way I could go through them all. I slipped several in my pocket, replaced the hatbox, and then headed down the hall.
“Coming, Mom!”
I started up the ladder–
And my phone began to ring.
The theme to Legend of Zelda played its tune. I stopped two stairs up and slipped the phone out of my pocket.
Caller ID: Ali. My wife.
“Yeah?”
“Can you get me a drink, too?”
“Uh, sure,” I said. “What do you want me to pick up on the way back? The usual whiskey?”
“On the way back?”
“Yeah. On the way back from my mom’s. I’ll be here another hour or two, but–”
“You’re at your mom’s?” she asked. Her voice suddenly soft, confused.
“Yeah, why?”
“I don’t understand. I just let you inside the house,” she said. “You’re down in the kitchen. Making us drinks. …Aren’t you?”