I lay out cards with images. Try to match them.
I need two mothers.
Two apples. Two squirrels.
I can’t find either of the mothers with the sly smiles, tender pride in their eyes.
I keep those cards close at night. We love you, Nicky, the mothers whisper. We truly love you.
The mothers have been with me since I was ten. They listened to me, question why people lie. Leave.
I find two houses, two fathers. Ransack closets, sofas.
Have these mothers left? Was I too inquisitive? Did they also find me sensitive?
I lose the other cards.