Lying to them about this small detail was obviously for the good of everyone. I had thought about it since the start of dinner, quietly deliberating what to tell our parents. If Vincent wanted to leave I wasn't about to stop him. Besides, how could I have explained what inspired Vincent to leave, especially to my father who only had eyes filled with superiority for me. It would have made as little sense to them as it did to myself, and the uproar the very game itself may have caused was not worth it. I decided to 'forget' the couple of seconds I witnessed as my brother left the house, suit case in hand with a look on his face that I had never seen before.
"His face is gone! My god, Antonio look!"
"Face? What do you mean Marie?" My father left his seat and joined my mother at the edge of our kitchen counter, peering at the family portrait. I stared at my dinner.
"It's been ripped off," He uttered in quiet disbelief. I stood up and joined my father, still asking myself why he had done that. By now we could already hear my mother bumping and banging around in Vincent's room, searching.
"His things are gone! Vincent's left! He'll never survive out there, why would he do such a thing?" She cried from at least three different sides of the house still thinking she may find something to prove herself wrong. My father had returned to the table frowning , head in hand, still staring at the photo. I remembered myself and pulled away from the bench.
"Mother, please you need to calm down, we'll find him."
"No, no, no. He's going to get hurt, where could he have gone? Why didn't he tell us?" She gripped me tightly by the arms, tears rolling down her face. I hugged her and did my best to comfort her, promising her he would be okay, though I barely knew it myself.
The authorities never found Vincent, yet with the feedback I received, I doubt they even tried. I called on numerous occasions and visited the local station regularly to check if they had found any trace of him, only to be faced with sorry attempts of pitiful apologies followed by the constant reminder that his profile of a high probability of heart failure and developments of psychological illnesses meant he 'may not have survived' or could have been 'in a mentally unwell state' when he left the home. Frankly, he was not worth their time. Why would they bother searching for a member of society who was worth so little to them in this day and age, practically useless in the sense that what his blood contained was all that mattered. Of course, I was outraged. But I knew that all the yelling and screaming in the world would not change their system, so I guess that was one of the reasons I decided to work in law.
Becoming a detective for me was relatively easy. That said, I was only the best of my parents, and though they are lovely people it still meant I had to work at least a little to get where I needed to be. I had just about given up on trying to track down Vincent by the time I was qualified and starting to work steadily in a field that I seemed to have a certain kick for. I thought about it every now and then, but with every day's new work load and the mysteries I was put up to unravel, I put off searching for him and left it in the past. And well, when I wasn't working as an assistant detective I spent my time down town with my college friends laughing the nights away and chasing after girls who tried to play coy. Life was still a bit of game to me, but when my father died I realised it was about time I grew up and lived up to the name that he had given me. My mother died shortly after due to a liver problem that had put her on the decline for what appeared much too long. They were always proud of me, but never forgot Vincent, genuinely thinking they had out lived him.