When I got to Mom’s house to water her plants and feed the cat, I was dead tired. I pushed open the stubborn front door, flashlight in hand, and stumbled through the dark, only half-awake. Earl’s food bowl was already full, which was odd. Stranger still was the steady snoring I heard when I collapsed onto her bed—only to realize it wasn’t empty.
A man was in it. Gray-haired, weathered, and somehow familiar. I screamed. He sat up slowly and said my name—Sadie—like he’d known it his whole life. My heart pounded. I threatened to call the police, and he raised his hands. Then he pulled out an old key ring I recognized from childhood. “I think I used to live here,” he whispered.
In the kitchen, over tea, he explained. His name was Dean—my father. He’d vanished thirty years ago, injured on a construction site in Mexico. No ID, no memory. Just that key ring. “It all came back last month,” he said, “so I came home.” I didn’t know how to respond. I let him sleep on the couch.
By morning, he was packing to leave. “Didn’t want to cause trouble,” he said. “You are the trouble,” I replied. But I didn’t tell him to go.
I told him to stay.
We watered the plants, Earl curled by his feet. “Mom comes back Monday,” I warned. “She might faint.” He smiled. “I’ll catch her.”
We waited for her on the porch—two people, unsure what they were to each other, hoping she’d still have room in her story for one more chapter.
