Erik stopped dead in his tracks. In all his enthusiasm to sell newspapers, he hadn't given any thought to the neighborhood where he had been assigned. Now, standing in front of his mother's house, he realized exactly where he was. This wasn't his childhood home; it was the place his mother had moved when he had gone away to college and she and Erik's father had split up. He had only been there a couple of times for holidays when he was in school, but still couldn't believe that he didn't recognize it right away.
The last time he had seen or spoken to his mother was ten years ago. She partly blamed Erik for her divorce, and Erik had never really forgiven her for putting him in the middle of their marriage troubles. Visits became fewer and fewer, followed by the conversations, and soon years and years had passed without them speaking.
Now Erik was standing in front of her house. The lights were on and the familiar Chevy Impala was parked in the driveway. She was home.
What should he do? Should he knock on the door, or should he move on to the next house?
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