I buried myself in work.
Then, one afternoon, something strange happened.
I’d been sitting in the office flipping through resumes for a janitor position. The store needed someone dependable.
Most of the applications looked the same: short job histories, a few references, nothing memorable.
Then I reached one that made me stop.
The name at the top read “Barry.”
I told myself it was just a coincidence. “Barry” was a common name.
One afternoon, something strange happened.
But when I looked at the photo attached to the application, my hands froze.
The man in it looked uncannily familiar. He was 26, had darker hair than my son, broader shoulders, and a rougher look around the eyes. But something about his face struck me hard.
The shape of his jaw.
The curve of his smile.
It looked like the man my son might’ve grown into!
Something about his face struck me hard.
I sat, staring at the photo.
There was a seven-year gap in his work history.
And right below that gap was a short explanation: incarcerated.
Most people would’ve tossed the resume aside right then.
I didn’t. Maybe it was the memories of my late son that made me do what I did.
