The road to Aunt Beatrice’s home in Maplewood disappeared into mist, white lilies lying on the seat beside me. Earlier, my twin brother Simon had laughed when I explained the visit. We had grown up believing our biological mother abandoned us at a bus station when we were three. Uncle Kenneth offered the comfort that story demanded: toys, reassurance, and moments of tenderness. When he died suddenly seven years later, we lost the gentlest person in our childhood.
Beatrice remained, but warmth rarely did. She reminded us that she had spared us an orphanage, treating her care as something we could never repay. She would not even attend our high school graduation. Afterward, Simon and I left to build careers in Minneapolis and Columbus. Yet distance had not extinguished my longing. Pulling into her driveway, I hoped the passing years had made room for a kindness I could finally feel.