The BeginningIn a small town in Massachusetts, a young girl sits alone of the steps of her house, weeping. Frieda tugged at her curly hair trying to get it out of her face. How did they know? The question was ridiculous, since there was no possible way for them to know. Yet, more troubling, who were they? No one here now could tell the tale apart from Frieda herself. Why? She thought as she wiped her tears and brought the objects up closer. The tea bag, filled to the brim with the terrible aroma of peppermint, was flung as far away from her as possible, but she clutched the photo to her heart. And as she saw his face form in her head she was struck again with the same one questioning word she thought every day; Why?
Mary Grath sat at a diner counter. Okay, 7 dollars and 4 cents. She glanced down at the check. +$ 7.04. Oh, there it was again, that terrible little plus sign. Resisting the urge to stick her tongue out at it like a 5-year-old, young compared to her 32 years, she took the money out of her purse and ran out as fast as she could. It had never been a reality to her to be pregnant without a boyfriend, a husband, or anything of the sort. She was brilliant, she was gorgeous, she was artistic... and she was about to become a mother. Mary frowned. She had been raised by her aunt, a NUN for crying out loud! This was not supposed to happen to people like her! On that note, she should call Aunt Adelaine, she hadn't let herself be seen since she had started showing. She parked in her driveway, deep in thought, and walked to get the mail. She blinked at her find, a pacifier?
Diapers, creams, bottles, he was most definitely in the wrong aisle. Greg Manning gruffly turned away from a couple of some exited mums-to-be swooning over some poor kid in a stroller. It was a funny thing, getting old. You came and left the world small, and in diapers. Being old was strange too. Heck, he was 68 and still didn't realize that he already had more than half of his life behind him. He didn't like babies, really. Most people fawned over them all day, but he found them disgusting. He walked to the counter fast. The child he had known... well, it didn't exist anymore. It had been one hot summer in Africa.
"24 dollars and seven cents please", an abrupt voice ripped him out of his memories. Memories, that was all he had now.
"Sir?" The young woman sat aggravated her dark hair frizzing in all directions. Oh, right.
"Here, keep the change." Greg grabbed the bag and walked out.
"All the lonely people...", the song text wafted out some kitchen window. In the war he had once known someone with a Ringo Star tattoo on his left shoulder. Eleanor Rigby, it was a sad story, not that he cared. Greg hadn't shared a tear for anyone but himself since his pet rabbit had died. His parents had been mortified, ashamed at him showing signs of actual emotion in public. He opened the grocery bag. You could never tell with people these days, they were all out to con you. An apple, paper towels, a lot of microwavable food he would probably never eat, and... what was that? Silently he picked a diaper out of the bag. What the heck?