When I was an infant my grandfather held me while he was in passing. I am subject to conclude that a piece of his soul must have imparted to me in that cold hospital room. As the multiple-sclerosis ate away at his pretzel of a body, he held me close and whispered ’Shelby’ in honor of his own father. My grandfather always wanted a son, but he was never blessed with such. I still suppose he must have left an imprint upon me. How else am I to explain the proclamations escaping my mother’s lips that I am her father. From an uncanny resemblance to taste and style; personality. I am told I reflect his presence. My mother resented her father for many things. Perhaps that is why she also seems to resent me, but I suppose that I hold resentment towards her sometimes as well.