Mom, Love Me Again

The day mom Diane Keaton kicked me out of our home was my eighteenth birthday. I'd naively thought she might show some compassion, considering the occasion. But before I could even cross the threshold, I watched as my clothes and backpack were tossed into the hallway.

My key wouldn't turn in the lock; no matter how hard I pounded on the door, silence remained the only response.

I lost track of how long I stood there knocking until exhaustion finally overtook me, and I slung my backpack over my shoulder and walked away.

As I wandered the streets, the autumn rain drenched me to the bone, and a shiver ran through me, blurring my vision.

I was a penniless student, and Diane had thrust me into the cold world without a second thought for my survival.

The chill of the rain felt insignificant compared to the freezing void in my heart.

Turning a corner, I spied someone who looked alarmingly like Diane across the street, her arms wrapped protectively around two children, shielding them from the wind and rain.

The scene felt so hauntingly familiar.

It brought back memories of the days before my brother Marlon Keaton's tragic death.

Diane had been kind to me then.

But it all changed one fateful day in his third year of middle school when Marlon took me out for a day of fun.

He never returned from that outing.

From then on, our home was filled with Dad Vincent Keaton's mournful sighs and Diane's constant berating.

As I watched the tableau of the three across the street, my feet started moving towards them, driven by an urge I couldn't resist.

Then, suddenly, I heard the screech of tires inches from my ear.

The impact of the collision sent searing pain throughout my body.

Before I could make sense of it, darkness swallowed me.

I lay there, the cacophony of honking horns and bustling footsteps fading in and out.

I had died on my eighteenth birthday, a painful and cruel end to a tragic day.