as I looked through them.
Every photo showed the same house.
Mine.
There were pictures of my front door, my bedroom window, my car, and even me sitting on the porch.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
On the back of each photograph was a date and time.
Some had been taken only hours before.
I rushed next door and knocked on their door.
Their mother opened it.
The moment she saw the photographs in my hands, she burst into tears.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
Then she told me
