Mistaken Identity

Okay. YOU figure out who's who . . .

My Husby has four brothers.

All of which look/sound a lot alike.

Our oldest son, Mark was a daddy's boy.

He adored his father.

They spent a lot of time together.

A lot.

In the early years of our marriage, all of my Husby's family lived in close proximity to each other.

Getting together was easy.

And frequent.

Looking back, it was a fleeting, wonderful time.

One day, the entire family had been invited over for dinner.

They began to gather.

By ones, twos and threes.

My Husby, on the closing shift, was the last to arrive.

Our oldest son, just turned two, was missing him.

He toddled through the group, looking for that one special, familiar face.

Finally, he spotted it.

Ran over and lifted his arms.

Then, lifted by strong arms, he snuggled down and nestled there, happy and content.

A few minutes later, the door opened.

And his father came in.

“Where's my boy?” he asked.

Mark stared at him.

Then spun around and looked at the man holding him, his face a perfect picture of confusion.

He looked back at the new arrival.

Then, again at the man who held him.

Finally, he made a choice and dove towards his father.

His real father.

Then stared accusingly at the uncle who had been holding him.

There is a codicil:

My sisters and I look a lot alike.

At one of our family reunions, my youngest son patted the leg of the woman he though was me. “Mom? Mom?”

She turned and looked at him.

Definitely not Mom.

He gasped and hid his face in his hands.

Mistaken identity.

It happens in the best of families.