I stared at the pictures, the younger twins, my brother and me (the older twins), and our mother. The pictures told our story in a way none of us wanted to.
It was all in the eyes. Look close and you’ll see ... the haunting, blank stares that hid our secrets and our pain.
But today was special. Today, our lives would start again.
I turned towards my brother. He stood with his hands on the shoulders of the younger ones who were now ten years old.
Eight years is what our mother served for killing our abusive, alcoholic father. She’d paid the ultimate price to protect us from his rage. They released her for good behavior. My brother and I had raised our younger siblings, struggling through school and working two jobs, living for this day.
I smiled at him. “Let’s go bring Mom home.”
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