I ran my fingers against the smooth wall, searching for the knob yet knowing I wouldn’t find it. It used to be there, a beautiful door that shaped my childhood. My mother never told me why my father would disappear behind it everyday. Now, it was too late-- she never would. Because one day, I watched, unseen, as she crept to follow my father. She didn’t return that night.
But he did.
He wasn’t my father exactly-- sure they looked the same, sounded the same, watched the same strange TV channel every day-- but his actions were always jut a bit off. He didn’t laugh in quite the same way, his smile never reaches his eyes, and when one day I finally built up the courage to ask about my mother, he only had one response.
“Bazinga”
...
Those were his last words.