My mom was out of town, so I stopped by her house to water plants, feed the cat,

and crash for the night. But when I fell into her bed,

it wasn’t empty—an older man was there, snoring softly.

When I screamed, he whispered my name like he’d always known me.

Confused and scared, I couldn’t believe what was happening.

Hours earlier, I’d dragged myself into a café after a long day, desperate for caffeine.

My coworker Bonnie was already there, bubbly as ever, ordering her usual chamomile with peach.

We chatted near the back, then two strange men showed up, making Bonnie excited while I just wanted to disappear.

She pulled me aside, annoyed. “Just be normal,” she said.

But I had to get home—my mom’s house, the cat, the plants.

When I arrived, the porch light was broken and the house felt frozen in time

. Earl, the cat, was smug and well-fed—someone had been there recently.

I crept upstairs, too tired to think, and collapsed into bed—only to land on warmth and hear breathing.

The stranger looked up and said, “Sadie?” I demanded, “How do you know my name?”

He said softly, “I think… I used to live here.”

At the kitchen table, he told me his name was Dean—my father, who disappeared thirty years ago after an accident.

He’d lost his memory but recently remembered everything, including me and this house.

I didn’t believe him at first, until he showed me an old keyring and a scar I’d seen before.

I let him stay the night, but forgiveness was far away.

By morning, he packed quietly—I told him,

“You don’t have to leave.” He looked surprised. “No?” I said, “Not yet.”

When Mom returned, she found us both there—waiting.

Not strangers. Not family. But maybe, someday, both.