Marcie and I have identical triplet sons—Eli, Max, and Ben—distinguished by blue, teal, and red bowties. At seven, they were inseparable, sharing a unique bond and language. But weeks ago, Eli (Teal) began waking up crying, describing vivid “memories” of a house with a red door, Mrs. Langley’s peppermints, and a green Buick with a dented bumper—none of which existed in our lives. His distant, glazed look unnerved us; these weren’t his usual imaginative stories. Marcie suggested dreams, but Eli insisted they were real, even referencing a “Mom”
who wasn’t me. We noted his words for the pediatrician, possibly a psychologist. Eli’s detailed drawings of the same house—complete with a squeaky red door, ivy-covered chimney, stone path, and tulip garden—deepened the mystery. His brothers, Max and Ben, found the drawings cool but weren’t fazed. Marcie and I, shaken, wondered if Eli was recalling a past life or something else entirely.
