4.3.25 - The Book Keepers Dilemma pt 15

Parable 15: The Children Who Stayed Behind

The first time they stopped calling him “Dad,” he didn’t notice.

It was small—barely a wrinkle in the afternoon. One twin asked, “Can he get the juice?” The other replied, “Ask him.”

Not Daddy. Not Dad. Just him.

He laughed it off. Thought it was a joke.

The second time, it felt deliberate.

“Can you tell him we’re done with lunch?”

Mother didn’t flinch. Just wiped the table and said, “He heard you.”

Their drawings started to match. Same scenes. Same subjects. Different pages—but mirrored structure.

One showed a house with no roof. The other, a man outside the house, smiling.

He asked them what the pictures meant.

One twin said, “That’s where the version with the lighter voice lives.”

The other added, “The one who doesn’t cry when he wakes up.”

He didn’t ask which version he was.

They began finishing each other’s sentences, perfectly synced.

They sat too still when asked questions.

They recited breakfast orders like prompts.

One morning, he asked, “What day is it?”

They answered in unison: “The one where you almost stay.”

At night, he peeked into their room. Watched them sleep.

One of them stirred, opened their eyes, and whispered: “Please pick this version. We’re so tired.”

He tried to reconnect. Made pancakes with jelly. Said “boom boom boom” when they ran. Showed them pictures from when they were babies.

They smiled politely.

“Those aren’t us,” one said. “Those were the first draft.”

He called his sister. Tried to ask if she remembered the twins’ birth.

She paused.

“You didn’t have twins,” she said slowly. “You had a boy. Just one.”

He laughed. “Are you serious?”

“I remember holding him. You named him after Dad. Don’t you remember that?”

He hung up.

Later that week, he found a stack of index cards under one of the twin’s pillows.

Each card had a prompt:

“If he asks about the zoo, say: ‘We never went.’”

“If he looks sad, say: ‘I love you.’ Do not elaborate.”

“If he asks what’s wrong, say: ‘Nothing anymore.’”

“If he asks who wrote these, hand him the red one.”

At the bottom of the stack was a red card.

On it:

“You are not the Father we finished with. Please accept reintegration. We miss you. But not this you.”

He sat in the hallway, shaking.

The twins stood behind him.

One placed a hand on his shoulder.

“We’re not trying to hurt you,” they said.

“We just don’t know which parts are still real.”