"It's always nice to see that you have your father's eyes."

My mother said that. About a week ago, after my father's funeral. She was of course crying, her eyes red and swollen with pain that would burn for years. My own eyes flooded, a failed attempt at a comforting smile formed, and I looked away. On any occasion, those words would be heavy to bear. But knowing what I knew, it was as if someone had shot me straight through the heart.

I'm 19. And adopted. But my mother doesn't know that. It's a long story, where mother was unconscious while "I" was born, "I" died, and dad adopted me to replace what had been lost.

It was an accident when I found out. I was sneaking through papers that dad kept in his office.

Where was where I was at now.

And it was quiet.

It's life was gone. Only papers and book lined shelves remained. The ashes from his last fire were still in the fireplace.

I ran my hands over my face. "It's always nice to see that you have your father's eyes."

How the fuck was I supposed to take that? By some miracle, I did have the same color of my adopted father's eyes. It wasn't hard, since they were a generic shade of blue. Maybe I wore the same expression as him. I don't know. I don't like to think about it.

But I can't stop thinking about it. I have to tell her. This is literally eating at me. She keeps looking at me, smiling, as if I am the one thing that gets her through this. It would have been nice if they had had another child to help share this burden. But I can't help but think, every time she looks as me since dad's death, that I am just a fake. I'm not the son she thinks I am. I am just a stranger, wearing her son's mask.

A parentless liar.

A cynical smirk appears on my face, that quickly turns to an ugly frown. It's not easy learning you're adopted. Let alone faced with this scenario.

I look at the adoption papers on dad's desk that I had pulled out. It took the entire week of searching them to find them. I stare blankly at them. What do I do? How do I do this?

Footsteps in the hallway announce I am no longer alone in my thoughts, as I quickly cover the papers. However I decide to tell her, it's probably best I do it softly.

"Hey honey. You in here again?"

"Yeah mom," I say as she stops at the doorway, the haunted expression on her face reminding me she can't stand to be in here for more than a few minutes.

"Isn't it depressing you at all?"

"No."

I look down at the covered papers. Yup. This had been our conversations since his sudden heart attack that quickly stole him from us.

"Jeremy, come on. Come out of there," mother demands with raised eyes, her head motioning to join her in the rest of the house.

"I just...am saying goodbye, I guess," I say as my eyes move to the window. Just leave, mother. I need this time to myself

I hear a shaky in take of breath, "Dinner is ready in twenty."

And then she was gone. I know she can't take it. I don't even know how I am. It's just so easy to consume myself with the knowledge of replacing her dead son, that I haven't had time to mourn dad.

I moved to the fireplace. Pictures lined the mantle. Of course of me, mother, and dad. My face scorns. Lies. That should have been another's life.

I was so lost in my hate for myself, for knowing I was soon to break my mother's heart by telling her who I was. But I couldn't live with it. Not after her comment. "It's always nice to see that you have your father's eyes."

"

"I love you, Jeremy. I always have ever since I held you in my arms and knew you were mine. We'll get through this. I promise."

"Love you too...mom. Let me clean up his desk, and I'll be out."

She nods, looks me dead in the eye with that look that tells me she is thinking those thought about the eyes again before leaving me be.

*I always have ever since I held you in my arms and knew you were mine. *

Man. I hate crying. In any sense. But the burn in my eyes...I have to let it out. So my eyes swell with water as I go to the adoption papers, holding them in my hands.

If dad hadn't adopted me as an infant, I would have grown up in an orphanage. These two people I call parents really are my parents...to me, anyway. I wouldn't have ever known any difference if I just hadn't seen these papers.

And it dawned on me. Maybe mom doesn't have to know.

Why does she?

It's like the reverse of telling your kids you're adopted.

Do I tell her?

I can smell smoked ham now. Dinner is definitely ready. My breathing grows quicker, as I feel the need to make a decision is gnawing at my brain.

So I go to the fire place, hesitate with the papers crinkled in my grip as I look at the family photos. Dad never made a big deal of the adoption. So why do I? Isn't it best that mom continues thinking my eyes are his? That I really am hers?

I bundle up all the papers in a heat of emotion, throwing them in the fire place. I don't want them. I don't want to break my mom's heart again. I don't want dad to not be my dad.

I don't want to not be their son.

I always have ever since I held you in my arms and knew you were mine.

Maybe I'll be theirs for a little longer, burn these papers, see how I feel later. Maybe after a few years, I will have forgotten about this myself. She is my mom just as much as I am her son.

Everyone hears how parents protect their children. Maybe, a way to prove I'm worthy of being hers, I'll hide her from the truth.

Maybe one day I'll forget the truth.