We brought up our triplets in the same manner until one day one of them started saying things he shouldn’t have.
We used to joke that in order to distinguish between them, we would need colored bow ties. Blue, turquoise, and red is what we did.
Three exact replicas, down to the little dimples.
They shared everything, spoke their own language, and completed each other’s sentences. Raising one soul in three bodies was the analogy.
However, Éli, the person wearing the turquoise bow tie, began crying when she woke up a few weeks ago. Not due to nightmares. Due to what he referred to as memories.
He would say stuff like:
“Do you recall the red-doored old house?”
Our door has never been red.
Or: “Why do we no longer see Mrs. Langley? I always got peppermint candy from her.
That name doesn’t belong to anyone we know.
Our triplets were brought up in the same way—until one of them started talking about memories that couldn’t be explained.
We used to joke that in order to distinguish them, we ought to tie them with colored bow ties.
Blue, turquoise, and red is what we did. The dimples on the three small boys were exactly the same.
They completed one another’s phrases. spoke a language of their own. shared everything.
Raising a single soul divided into three bodies was like that. However, Eli, the person wearing the turquoise bow tie, began crying when she woke up a few weeks ago. Not due to nightmares. due to recollections. That’s what he said. He made statements like as:
“Do you recall the red-doored old house?”
Our door has never been red. Or: “Why do we no longer see Mrs. Langley? I always got peppermint candy from her.
That name doesn’t belong to anyone we know. “I miss Dad’s old Buick,” he said last night, staring me in the eyes. The one with the dented bumper that is green.
I went cold. He wasn’t referring to my vehicle. My vehicle is a Honda. Our family has never owned a green Buick, either. We initially attributed it to imagination. The boys are seven years old. Fairies under the porch, dinosaurs in the attic, and pirate tales are all products of their imaginations.
However, this was not like the others. Eli’s eyes drifted away as though he weren’t actually there when he stated these words. He didn’t want attention. He genuinely thought what he stated was true/
Marcie, my wife, attempted to comfort him. “My dear, perhaps you had a dream. Sometimes dreams seem quite real.
Eli, however, gently shook his head.
“No. I recall. The red door opened with a squeak. Mom also advised me not to slam it.
I was “Mom.” However, when he said that, he didn’t even glance at me. He seemed to have substituted me in his imagination. Marcie and I began to document everything.
We were going to speak with the pediatrician. A psychologist, perhaps, if it went on.
Then Eli started sketching. whole pages. The red-doored house is always the same. A garden full of tulips, a little stone path, and a chimney covered with ivy.
Max and Ben, his brothers, said, “So cool, your house!” as they peered over his shoulder, but they appeared unconcerned. Eli was not afraid. Simply put, I’m depressed. As though he had misplaced something valuable.
I discovered him searching through old crates in the garage one Saturday morning. His hands were smeared with dust as he gazed at me:
“Is my old baseball glove still here?”
I said softly, “You don’t play baseball, buddy.”
Yes, previously. prior to my fall.
I knelt down.
“Where did it fall from?”
“From the rungs. Dad warned me not to climb that one.
The back of his head was touched.
“It was really painful.”
I gazed at him. His speech was devoid of both doubt and dread. Just assurance.
We scheduled a visit with his pediatrician, Dr. Krause. After listening intently and carefully taking notes, she suggested a child psychologist with expertise in early memory.
She informed us, “We don’t think anything is abnormal.”
“But it’s worth looking into if these memories bother him or change the way he sees the world.”
Dr. Hannah Berger, the psychologist, was kind and considerate. Eli adapted to her right away.
Two sessions later, she informed us:
This isn’t your average pretend play. For his age, he recalls scenarios with a surprising level of coherence and precision. “Reminiscences of past lives” is what some refer to it as. despite the fact that it is contentious.
Previous lives? I almost burst out laughing. I was looking for a logical explanation. a phenomena related to the nervous system. a strong sense of imagination. Not reincarnation.
But Dr. Berger didn’t promote any theories. She merely stated
“For him, it’s real, regardless of its provenance. Don’t discount his feelings.
I did an internet search that evening. “Children with recollections of past lives.” I discovered countless of tales.
A boy recalling an aircraft accident. A girl who has never learned Swedish speaking it. Like us, parents are caught between the logical and the unexplainable.
Dr. Mary Lin, a researcher who had spoken with numerous kids in similar situations, was the name that kept popping up. She was two states away.
I sent her an email. The following day, she responded.
“I would be delighted to speak with your son.”
We set up a video conference. Eli hid behind me because he was shy. But he was comforted by Dr. Lin’s soft speech.
“Remember your name… from earlier?”
Eli gave a nod.
“Danny.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Cramer, Kramer, or something similar.”
“Where did you live?”
“In a house where the door is red.” Ohio. close to the railroad tracks.
Arizona is where we call home. Our family has never traveled to Ohio.
Dr. Lin went on quietly:
“Do you recall what transpired with you?”
Eli paused, then muttered:
“I ought not to have gone up the ladder. However, I wanted to return the flag. I went down. My head.
He made contact with the same area. then became quiet. Dr. Lin promised to do some research. She gave us a call back three days later.
“A Daniel Kramer caught my eye. He was a resident of Dayton, Ohio. passed away in 1987. seven years old. fell in his yard from a ladder. fracture of the skull I felt cold. I got his death notification from her.
and a grainy antique picture. The boy resembled Eli. The same eyes. His forehead has the same cowlick.
I was unsure of how to interpret it. Eli and his brothers weren’t the people I wanted to scare. I then spoke with Marcie. We talked through the night. She sobbed. Not because I’m afraid.
Something indefinable, though. A mixture of astonishment, vertigo, and grief.
Eli entered the kitchen the following morning and uttered the following:
“I believe I will no longer dream.”
“Why, my love?” Marcie inquired.
“Because I have all the information I needed to recall.”
He seemed… older. As if he’d closed a chapter. And indeed, from that day on, everything stopped. No more memories. No more house drawings. He went back to his dinosaurs. To playing with his brothers. To laughing like before.
We didn’t press. We let it be. A few months later, I received a letter in the mail. No sender. Inside: an old photo. A house with a red door. Ivy-clad chimney.
Tulip garden.
And a handwritten note: I thought you’d like this. — Mrs. Langley
My hands shook.
I showed the photo to Marcie. She said nothing. We’d never talked about Mrs. Langley with anyone. Except Eli. And Dr. Lin. I tried contacting Dr. Lin again.
Her email was dead. Her website gone. As if she’d vanished.
Eli never asked about the photo. But one day, he looked at it and simply said with a small smile:
“That’s where I left my favorite marble.”
Today the boys are fifteen. Eli remains the calmest. Thoughtful. Gentle.
Sometimes I catch him staring at the sky, as if remembering something.
But he says nothing. Last week, I found an old shoebox under his bed. Inside, a single marble. Blue with green swirls. And at the bottom, scribbled in a shaky hand: For Eli — from Danny. You found it.
I asked where it came from. He smiled.
“Some things don’t need explaining, Dad.”
I don’t know if I believe in past lives. But I believe in Eli. I believe in the peace he found. In the quiet that followed.
And in the look he gave me that day—a look that said: All is well now.
We raise our children to become who they are. But sometimes, they arrive already bearing a story. A story that isn’t ours.
A story to simply… embrace.
That’s what I’ve learned. Listen to your children. Sometimes, they have the most to teach us.
