My family lived in Charleston, South Carolina when I was a kid. We moved out west just after I finished kindergarten. Then one day, two decades later, the Navy stationed my brother out in that neck of the woods with his wife and their kids. They swung on over to our old stomping grounds and took pictures of things that he remembered- the huge old oak tree in front of the grade school, the swimming pool we used to splash around in, and of course, our old house. While out in front of it, snapping a few photos, a young adult neighbor came out to see what they were doing. They chatted and talked about who still lived in the neighborhood and who moved away, etc. Suddenly my brother realized who he was. “I remember you,” my brother said. “I remember when your parents adopted you.” “I’m not adopted,” the young man corrected him. “You must be thinking of someone else.” “Oh, well,” my brother said, “it must have been the people who lived there before you.” “No,” the young man insisted. “My parents have lived here for a long long time.” “Then it must be you,” my brother continued, Read more
