He’d moved into an apartment with his best friend, Noah — two boys who’d been inseparable since they were six, who looked so alike that teachers mixed them up, that strangers in line at the store asked if they were twins.
Now Jake sat in my kitchen in his coat, shaking, and told me he hadn’t moved out to be independent at all.
“Noah told me something about our family,” he said. “I thought he was lying. I moved in because I needed proof.”
Then he took a folded paper out of his jacket, and before he’d hand it to me, he said the thing that frightened me more than his tears.
“Don’t lie to me, Mom. Not this time.”
I asked where he’d found it.
“At Noah’s house.”
I unfolded it, expecting a misunderstanding.
I read the first lines, and my knees nearly went out from under me, and I dropped into the chair.
