That day was the first permanent memory I had.
It was a day filled with emotion for me – joy, sadness, incredible longing. The feeling of finally finding something I’d missed out on for many years.
While other days and memories of my childhood have vanished into the back of my mind over the course of years, this particular day is still as clear to me now as it was then. I would not trade it for any other day in my life.
But it was also the day my nightmares began.
I remember sitting on the bridge, my eyes desperately searching the grounds below me for my lost toy. I was dangerously close to falling off already when a sudden gust of wind made me shove forward. I would have fallen off long before dad’s running footsteps reached where I was… if not for the pale, transparent arms that wrapped themselves around me. I couldn’t feel them, but the wind lost its grip on me and instead of plunging to my death, I slipped off the bridge ever so slowly.
I recognised those arms.
Dad pulled me back just as they disappeared.
He couldn’t see her.
After that day, several things have happened. Unexplainable things. Mostly trivial matters, really. Like knowing exactly what to say to console the boy whose twin brother was forever lost in a fire, but not knowing where those consoling words came from. A horrible, unexplainable feeling of sadness on one evening, and finding out a family member of a friend had passed away the next day at school.
But there were really disturbing things as well. I did not tell dad about any of them. He did his best raising me and I know he loved me in his own way, but there had been too much sadness in his life. Sometimes he’d just stare into the distance for minutes during dinnertime. If I then called out to him, he’d tell a story about mum. How they found a parrot by the side of the road. How cute she looked during their first date, or the moment he found out she was pregnant with me. He needed someone to confide in, but that resulted in a huge feeling of emptiness inside of me. The feeling of loss. Of missing. And I knew why.
I did not have a mother.
There were others like me, with no doubt, that grew up without one or both parents. Dad, himself, said he had experienced the same thing. And that he was able to live with it. That he’d accepted the fact that he grew up with no mother. But I just can’t.
My name is Micah Adams, and I would like to pass my story unto you.
But beware, for it is not a happy tale.