When I was a kid, there was a house on Boylston Street, owned by this wealthy white family. They say we used to work there, before the war started. But mom always warned me to avoid that place, and those people. So I did, for a time. But as I grew older, and maybe, just a little braver, my curiosity got the better of me. So I’d sneak out of the house, late at night, and crawl up to the front window of that three-story building.

The father of this family, I could tell he loved his children. It didn’t matter how exhausted he was from work, he’d make time for them. Sometimes they danced and played music. Other times they’d play games. But the night always ended with a book and a story. Every night he’d act out some tall tale, laughing and regaling and dreaming those children to sleep. God, there was so much joy in that house. So much love. And every night I watched them, I couldn’t help but wonder why that father, my father, didn’t share any of that love for me.

The news man says it will all be over soon. The bombs are on their way. I wonder, in this moment, if he is thinking of me. Maybe there’s a part of him that wishes that there was one more spot by the fireplace, one more person to say goodbye to. And maybe he knows I’m out there, watching from the other side of that window, knowing that even now at the end of all things, he’d never invite me in.

Tell me, are we really that different, you and I?