That burning odor smelled like the aftermath of a massive fire. A mixture of the scent of charred wood, resin and meat. This instantly conjured up images in my head of a house engulfed in flames.
Without thinking, I asked, “Dad… was there ever a fire in our house before?”
My father paused, his sharp gaze darting toward me, including my mother and younger brother. Their eyes grew serious.
“Why are you asking such a thing?”
“Oh, no reason,” I said quickly. “I just saw a pretty fresh burn scar on your hand and I couldn’t remember how you got it. So, I ask.”
My father withdrew his hand, as if relieved and casually made up an excuse. “Oh, that? It's nothing. I burned myself while helping your grandma back at the old house. You were too young to remember, so we never brought it up.”
I nodded and dropped the subject, but I was even more confused than ever.
I didn’t even have any memories of my grandmother either. It was as if she had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.