The Secrets to New York

Eight | Photo Albums

I met your parents on a Sunday afternoon.

I was nervous, but you just grabbed my hand and told me that it would be fine.

They’ll love you as much as I do you smiled. I’m sure of it. I just nodded, hoping you were right.

Your house smelled like vanilla and your mom and I cooked spaghetti; you and your dad sat and watched the football game that was playing that day. I did my best at not feeling like I had missed out on something so special when I was growing up. Your mom asked about my parents and  I told her that they were dead. (It was exactly the truth, but it was close enough). I hadn’t even told you the whole truth yet, though, so I guess it was okay. Or at least sort of okay. The guilt still ate up at me though, and I knew that I would have to tell you soon.

After dinner your mom pulled out the old photo albums. The covers were worn and the pictures were tarnishing, but they were still so beautiful--a family. You played tee ball when you were little. For some reason you were embarrassed, but I thought it was adorable.

I found myself hopeful that I had finally found a real family that maybe, just maybe, I could be a part of.