Michaela Dillon
Anchor Contributor
“Who are you?” Continued ...
Macy handed him her phone, and he scrolled through her expansive collection of photos of three completely unrecognizable children—stirring a pot of chocolate cake batter and licking their fingertips, blowing out birthday candles, riding bicycles. Just those same three children, over and over again. Where did she get all these pictures? Did she take them from the internet? The last few shots he scrolled through appeared to be from a professional newborn photo shoot, presumably of the youngest one, Trevor—nestled in a decorative wicker basket full of pillows cuddled up with a teddy bear, sound asleep on a luxurious, fluffy periwinkle carpet, a sepia shot of him swaddled up and cradled in his mother’s arms, her face off camera. “We got that shoot done just a few months ago, right after he was born,” Macy explained. “We couldn’t decide on a theme, remember? I wanted dinosaurs, you wanted baseball…” Her voice trailed off when she noticed Colin’s expression. “You have no idea who I’m talking about, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” Colin snapped. “And if you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the police.”
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you. Please let me through. I need to check on Trevor—”
“There’s no baby,” Colin hissed.
“No baby? What do you mean, no baby? Where are Walden and Daisy? They should be home from school by now—”
“WE HAVE NO CHILDREN.” Colin enunciated his words slowly and precisely as his tone of voice sharpened. “I have no clue where you got those photographs. Or if they’re even your kids, or what their real names are. But they’re not mine.”
“What are you talking about?” the woman demanded. “I don’t know if this is your way of asking for a divorce, but I’d at least like to know where my kids are at this point, and why they’re not with you.”
“BECAUSE THEY’RE NOT MINE,” Colin boomed, Duncan trembling as he receded behind his father’s back. “I have only one child. I’m married to Joni Mulligan. I DON’T KNOW WHO YOU ARE, I’ve never seen you before in my life, and if you don’t leave NOW, I’ll have the police come and make sure you never come back into it!”
“B-but… we met in high s-school,” Macy squeaked, tears rolling down her cheeks in fear and confusion. “…W-we were on the d-d-debate team together. Don’t you remember? Why don’t you remember? Why can’t I go check on my baby?”
“BECAUSE HE’S NOT HERE!” Colin screamed. “WHY CAN’T YOU GET THAT THROUGH YOUR THICK SKULL?!! WE ARE NOT MARRIED! WE NEVER HAVE BEEN! AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S MAKING YOU THINK WE ARE!!!”
Macy burst into tears, covering her face in her hands. “I don’t understand!” she sobbed. “Why can’t I see my children? Why are you doing this to me? Everything was fine this morning when we left for work. You kissed me goodbye and said you loved me. What did I do wrong?”
“Dad… I’m scared,” Duncan piped up from behind his father’s back.
“That’s it. I’m calling the police.” Colin grabbed his son and marched into the other room, dialing his mobile phone as Macy bawled in the kitchen. Who the hell was she? He vaguely remembered a Macy Flannery from high school. But that was years ago. She had a boyfriend. And they barely even talked. Had she been obsessed with him all this time? So obsessed, in fact, that she’d somehow fabricated an entire married life for the two of them and convinced herself it was real? How did she find his address? No time for that. He had to get her out of here—now. “Hello, 911? I’d like to report a disturbed woman—”
“Colin, I’m ho— who’s this?” He could hear the front door creak open and the jingling of Joni’s keys over the sound of Macy’s screams. Oh no.
“Who are you?!!” Macy wailed. “What are you doing in my house?!! What’s even happening anymore?!!”
“Excuse me?” demanded Joni. “Colin, who is this?” Tune in next issue for the final part of “Who are you?” ...
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