When my mom went out of town, I stopped by to water her plants, feed the cat, and take a breather after a rough day. But when I flopped onto her bed, I jumped right back up—someone was already there, snoring. I screamed, but the man opened his eyes and calmly said my name, like he’d known me all my life. My chest tightened as fear and confusion tangled inside me.
We sat in the kitchen under buzzing lights as he introduced himself as Dean—my father. He said he’d lost his memory after a construction accident years ago and had only recently started remembering pieces of his old life. The name I’d never heard spoken in our house suddenly had a face. I didn’t know whether to cry, yell, or run.
Dean stayed the night while I stayed awake, torn between resentment and curiosity. The house, once silent and cold, slowly warmed as he helped tidy up and made peace with the cat. There were long pauses between conversations, but something real was starting to form. I didn’t know what to call it—maybe a fragile beginning.
When Mom returned, she found us side by side, unsure but no longer strangers. Her eyes widened, then softened as the past and present met in that small room. Outside, thunder rumbled but didn’t break. Inside, a quiet storm was beginning to pass.
