A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

LEO
NOW
Dad tells you you’ll sleep in your old room, ’cause where else would
you sleep? Still, it’s weird having someone in that room. No one’s
been in that room for as long as I can remember.
Dad has to show you where your room is because you don’t know.
You also don’t know my name. After half a day of assuming, it
becomes evident you don’t know. Dad tells you I’m Leo. “You
remember Leo, don’t you?” he asks, and you shake your head,
which doesn’t surprise me, because I’m not so memorable.
“He was smaller the last time you saw him,” Dad says.
You don’t have any clothes other than the ones you’re wearing,
which came from the hospital’s clothes closet. They were donated. I
can tell by looking at them that they’re not new. You’re wearing
someone else’s old clothes. But the only clothes in your closet are a
kids’ size six, because that’s the size you wore when you were
taken. They’re not going to fit. Dad is tall, so he says to me, “Leo.
Find something in your closet for your sister to wear.”
I still can’t wrap my head around it, how when Dad says your
sister, he’s talking about you. You’re here in the same room as me.
You’re home. Or at least some version of you is home.
I go to my room. I find a shirt I don’t wear anymore. I find a pair of
sweatpants. I bring them to you. “Here,” I say, holding them out.
You take them. You say back, “Thank you, sir.” I can’t even bring
myself to laugh because it’s pitiful that you think you need to call me,
your kid brother, sir. Talk about fucked up.
“Just call me Leo already. Old people are sirs.”
You stand in your doorway holding my shirt and pants in your
hands. There are things I want to know. Questions I want to ask you,
but can’t. Questions about Mom. I know the story the police came up
with. What I want to know is if that’s really the way it went down.