I made way from my new bedroom, refrained from unpacking and stepped into the den. There he was, my father. My mother was right when she said I was almost the spitten image of him. Except, I never flaunted a cigar half an inch wide in my mouth, had an accent, or had my hair anywhere but my head.
"Ah. Yes..." he groaned, inspecting me from head to toe as he pull the joint from his lips and smile. "You have your mother's body, but my features. Now come sit down and tell me a bit about yourself, eh miss? Relax yourself a little, I'm sure you're tired from that traveling."
I could only nod and do as he said, I sipped from the small white tea cup that was on the table, the hot cider almost burning my lips with only the steam. "Ah!" I muttered to myself in pain, but as I lifted my head I saw a little girl, no older than seven, maybe. "Daddy," she whined, "How come you never told us about the fourth child?" "Yeah, father, how come you never told us about your bastard from the states?" said another voice with a snotty attitude, the girl who looked barely twelve snickered, peeking her eyes into the door, giving me a death stare. But he didn't get to respond since they were gone. He only rolled his eyes and held onto my hand "Don't you worry about them, okay? And never be intimidated. Just because I was irresponsible fifteen years ago, doesn't mean I can love you any less than them, you understand?"
Another nod from me, but that voice, the one telling me my memories... it came back. It kept repeating the words of the children until it hurt.