I wrote this a long time ago–maybe some of my new friends will enjoy reading it.
When I found the postcard from Remy beneath my bed I immediately wrote him at the return address. Mama immediately questioned my judgment.
“He doesn’t live in Paris,” she said as she reached for her coffee from behind her morning read. “He might still be out on the ranch, there in the hills.”
“Yes, near Bordeaux,” I replied. “That’s where he wrote the postcards from.” My mother lowered her book to the table and looked me in the eye.
“That was nearly ten years ago, Andre. Since before your father passed. He won’t recognize you even if you do manage to track him down.”
“Papa loved him,” I reasoned. “So do you, ma. Remy is blood.” But she wasn’t looking at me anymore. Her gaze was elsewhere, unfocused and lost outside the kitchen window. We were quiet for a while after that.
I left for France the next…
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