She names her first born son Aaron. And if she was asked, she would say that she'd named him after Elvis Aaron Presley, the King of Rock and Roll, movie star, and all around sex symbol. A lie, but a harmless one- she had planned to name one of her children 'Aaron' since she was five and she'd always liked the name, even before she had met him (or had she? Her memories are conveniently foggy, and she can't tell whether she'd decided to name her child that before of after she'd met him). Either way, it doesn't matter. A name is a name is a name, and it's not like she knows anyone in London that could guess why she named her son Aaron. She hasn't seen him since she was 15, and she's not planning to see him anytime soon- at least that's what she tells herself (though secretly, even now, every year on her birthday as she makes a wish, he is what she wants to see when she opens her eyes).

Even if she wanted to see him, how could she? She has long since lost contact with him; she blocked him on Facebook, and she never knew his email or number. Of course, she could find them, easily – the internet is so very conveniently there, and all she has to do is to type in his name, a-a-r-o-n, but, as she constantly tells herself, she is over him and she is not in love with him, was never in love with him, and the fact that her son has the same name is a massive coincidence (she has always been good at lying to herself) and anyone who can't see that is an idiotic moron who shouldn't have graduated high school, so why should she find him? Her son and herself are fine – her son does not need a father figure, no matter what every doctor and child raising manual and random person she meets on the streets who has an opinion and mouth says. Lots of people have had an artificially inseminated child the way she has and turned out fine. She is amply equipped to take care of her son; she has majored in _ and_ in collage, has a well paying job that leaves her with plenty of time to be with her son and when she had her son (a year ago, to the day) she was twenty nine, so why shouldn't she have had a son?

Her Aaron (and it's hard to differentiate them in her mind, because at some point she had thought of Aaron – the first – as her Aaron too) grows. He looks like her; everyone points it out. Aaron has her eyes and her hair and her nose and complexion and she is surprised. Somehow, for some unfathomable reason, her subconscious had thought that since she had named her son after him, her son would magically look like him too. She is surprised and relieved and so very grateful that he doesn't, but even so, something in her heart breaks a little. A part of her had put all of the life she had left behind into this child – she had put her family and her friends and Aaron into her son, and when he'd been born, she had thought that he would look like Aaron and her friends and her family. But her Aaron – her son, was his own person – her had nothing of her old life in him, and she loved him for it. Than again, that wasn't saying much, because she loved him.

She remembers the day she had moved to London – 20 years old, and leaving her entire world behind. She had felt the sharp silver rain on her face, saw the gray gray city, and fell in love. London became her home; she made a life there and never looked back – the only reminiscing she had done was name her son after the ghostly memories of a boy she used to know.