My mom was out of town. I came to water her plants, feed the cat, and sleep after a long day. But when I collapsed into her bed, it wasn’t empty. A stranger was already in it—snoring. And when I called out, he said my name like he’d known me all my life.
I entered the cafe shortly after six, the sky outside already wearing its evening blue like a worn coat.
My feet ached, my shoulders slumped, and the smell of roasted beans hit me like a soft punch.
After a day of standing around, nodding, and saying, “Sure, I’ll get it,” caffeine seemed less like a choice and more like a necessity.
Bonnie, my coworker, floated past me to the counter, already smiling at the waitress. “Chamomile with a hint of peach, please,” she said.
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I crawled forward. “Give me the strongest one,” I said. “Anything to keep my eyelids from sticking together.”
The waitress giggled, and a minute later she had a steaming cup of what smelled like bitter anger.
I opened three packets of sugar and poured them in one after the other.
Bonnie looked at me, eyebrows raised, and stirred the tea as if it were a delicate spell.
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“Sugar is white death, you know?” he said, his lips curling into a knowing smile.
His hands were always clean: short nails, no chipped polish. The honey spilled in his cup reflected the light like gold. I didn’t flinch.
“I’ve heard my mom say it a hundred times,” I said. “And a couple hundred more from everyone else.”
He tilted his head. “So you’re not like your mother?”
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I blew on the coffee and took a careful sip. It burned a little, but in a good way. As if it had awakened something inside me.
“No,” I said.
“She doesn’t eat sugar. She thinks it will make her look eighty at fifty.”
Bonnie laughed softly. “And you?”
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I shrugged. “I don’t care.”
We found a booth near the back, away from the bustle of the customers. The overhead light flickered every few minutes as if it couldn’t make up its mind.
We talked about nothing. And then a little bit of everything. Work gossip.
Old boyfriends. Favorite snacks. For a moment, the weight I’d been carrying all day slipped off my shoulders.
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Two guys walked in shortly after seven. Both were tall and smelled like they’d been doused in department store cologne.
One had dimples deep enough to lose a coin in. They sat at the next table.
“Hi,” said the guy with the dimples. “Are you from around here?”
Bonnie’s whole body bent as if she had been waiting for this moment.
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“Born and raised in Ames,” she said, swirling her teaspoon.
I stared at my cup as if it held secrets.
They flirted. Bonnie laughed and ruffled her hair. I rolled down my sleeves and tried to disappear.
After a while, Bonnie looked at me and pulled me towards the bathroom.
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“You’re ruining it,” he hissed as soon as the door closed.
“I didn’t ask them to sit with us.”
“They’re cute, Sadie! Be normal. I’m trying to find love. Don’t make it weird.”
I looked at the clock.
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“I have to go. Mom’s out of town. I promised to feed the cat and water the plants.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Can’t your father?”
I blinked.
“I’ve never seen it. If it’s out there, it’s not going to show up because of a cat.”
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She sighed and hugged me. Her perfume—something powdery and sweet—clad to my coat.
I stepped back out into the Iowa night. The wind bit my cheeks.
The street was quiet. Mom’s house wasn’t far away, just a ten-minute walk. But it seemed like hundreds of miles of memories.
And something told me that tonight wasn’t over for me yet.
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I fumbled with the key in the dark. The porch light was still broken; Mom said she’d fix it before she left. But she didn’t.
That’s how she was. She always wrote notes about what she was going to do and then forgot where she put them.
The key stuck for a second, as if the door wouldn’t open. I shook it a little and then pushed hard with my shoulder.
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The old wooden frame groaned as it finally gave way.
Inside, the hallway yawned with shadows. That was the word that came to mind: yawned .
Wide, deep, and quiet. I reached for the light switch by the door. I flipped it.
Nothing.
“Of course,” I murmured. The light bulb had burned out weeks ago. I’d reminded him. Twice.
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I took out my phone’s flashlight and swept the beam in front of me. The place seemed strangely still, as if someone had pressed pause in the house itself.
I tiptoed forward, careful not to trip over Earl’s scratching mat or the pile of shoes Mom kept by the stairs.
The living room smelled of lavender cleaner and wood polish. Familiar, but cold. I glanced at the old fern in the corner.
Its leaves were drooping, as if they’d given up. I filled the watering can and gave it a drink.
Then I headed to the kitchen and took Earl’s food. I bent down to pour some into his bowl, but it was already full.
“Huh.” I stared at him for a second, my heart skipping a few irregular beats.
I called softly, “Earl? Come here, kitty.”
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A few seconds later, he entered the room like royalty. Fat, fluffy, and very pleased with himself.
He rubbed against my ankle, purred, and looked at me like I was late to his party.
I narrowed my eyes. “Well… someone was here.”
The floor creaked behind me. Just the house, I told myself. But it made my stomach clench.
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I grabbed the large flashlight from the kitchen drawer and held it like a gun. My fingers were cold and sweaty at the same time.
I headed toward the bedroom. There was no light. I didn’t even try the light switch. I was too tired.
I fell onto the bed, but not just onto the blankets.
There was something there.
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Soft. Warm. Breathing.
Then I heard it: a deep, steady snore.
I jumped back as if the mattress had teeth, put my hand on the lamp and turned it on.
There was a man lying there. He was about sixty years old. Gray beard. Broad shoulders. Covered with Mom’s quilt as if it belonged to her.
“But what…?” I grabbed the base of the lamp with both hands. “Who are you ?”
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He shifted, squinting in the light. “I… Sadie?”
My whole body went cold. “HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?!”
He raised a hand slowly, as if trying to calm a wild animal. “Please. I can explain. But don’t call the police.”
But he was already unlocking the phone, his thumb trembling over the “9.”
Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a key ring. Rusty, with a faded leather tag. He’d seen it before. A long time ago.
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“I think… I think he used to live here,” he said quietly.
We sat in the kitchen, the old wall clock ticking as if trying to remind us of every second we had lost.
I filled the kettle and put it on the stove, with a click.
My hands were shaking, not from the cold, but from everything else: shock, confusion, a kind of rage that didn’t yet have a name.
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The man, Dean, watched me silently. He sat at the table with his large hands folded, as if waiting for permission to speak again.
When the water boiled, I poured it over two tea bags, placed a cup in front of him, and poured three heaping spoonfuls of sugar into his.
“You take it like I do,” I said without thinking, and the words hung between us.
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He smiled, soft and tired. “I guess it runs in the family.”
That word – family – felt like a stone in my shoe.
He cleared his throat.
“My name is Dean. I’m… your father.”
The words didn’t hit me all at once. They washed over me slowly, like waves that know they’re going to knock you down, but take their time.
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I stared at the cup. “I don’t understand.”
Dean looked at his hands, as if the answers were written in the wrinkles.
“I went to work thirty years ago. A construction site in Mexico. We were building a hotel. One day, part of the scaffolding gave way. I was on it.”
I leaned forward, listening but trying not to show how hard my heart was beating.
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“I was unconscious for weeks. I woke up in a hospital. I didn’t know my name. No wallet or phone. Just this…” He took the old key ring out of his coat pocket again and put it on the table as if it were proof that he wasn’t lying.
“And this,” he added, pushing his hair back to show a scar near his temple. It was long and pale, like an old road on a faded map.
“Did you forget your whole life?” I asked quietly.
He nodded.
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“I lived. I took jobs. I found places to sleep. I managed. I always had this feeling that something was missing, but I couldn’t reach it. Then one day, last month, it all came back. Your mother’s voice. This kitchen. Your name. So I came home.”
I looked at the man in front of me. The ghost Mom never spoke of. The silence that sat next to her at every dinner party.
“Why didn’t you call? Or write? Something?”
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He looked me in the eyes. “I didn’t know I was gone.”
I didn’t answer. I got up, went to the linen closet, took out a blanket, and gently placed it on the chair next to it.
“You can sleep here tonight,” I told him. “But don’t expect me to forgive you over a cup of tea.”
He nodded slowly. “I won’t.”
I woke up to the warm smell of toast floating in the air, soft and buttery, like mornings when I was a child.
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The dull sound of drawers opening and closing came from downstairs. It wasn’t loud, just constant. As if someone was trying not to wake the house.
I got out of bed and walked slowly down the stairs, each step crunching under my bare feet.
In the kitchen, Dean stood at the table, folding his clothes and stuffing them into a worn, faded backpack.
His movements were careful and practiced, as if he had packed and unpacked the same backpack more times than he could count.
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“Are you leaving?” I asked, my voice still rough from sleep.
He looked up, his eyes soft but tired. “I didn’t want to cause any more trouble.”
I leaned against the door. “You didn’t cause them. You ‘re the problem.”
Dean gave a sad smile, as if he already knew. “Fair enough.”
I stared at the bag, the same one from last night, the one that looked older than me.
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“You know, Mom never dated after you. She said she was too tired of men who left with empty promises and came back empty-handed.”
His sigh came out deep and slow. “I was always right.”
The room fell silent. Only the hum of the refrigerator between us.
“You didn’t have to pack,” I said finally. “I didn’t mean for you to leave.”
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He froze. “No?”
“I said you could stay tonight. I didn’t say we were done talking.”
His shoulders relaxed a little.
“I can’t forgive what I don’t remember,” I said, lowering my voice. “But I can try to find out who you are. Maybe.”
Dean nodded and slowly zipped his bag. “Thanks.”
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By midday, we had opened the curtains. The house no longer seemed like the shell of someone’s memories.
Dean helped water the rest of the plants. Earl snuggled up to his leg, purring in approval.
“Mom’s coming back on Monday,” I said. “She might faint when she sees you.”
“I’ll hold it,” he laughed.
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We sat on the porch. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and summer. A storm was brewing behind the clouds, but I still hadn’t found the courage to speak.
He peeked in. “Do you think he’ll believe me?”
“I think… she was always expecting a story like this. Even when she wasn’t saying it.”
We sat in silence, two people who were not entirely familiar, not entirely strangers, waiting for a door, or a heart, to open.
And when Mom finally came home, she found us both there, waiting.
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