Every Sunday, my mom hosted dinner—rain or shine. After Dad passed away three years ago, those meals became our
family’s lifeline, a way to keep his memory alive and to hold on to each other. So when Mom sent a text saying, “Please don’t come today,” with no explanation, my brother and I knew something wasn’t right.
My heart pounded as we drove to her house, a hundred worries running through my mind. The porch light was on, but no one answered when we knocked. I fumbled for my spare key, unlocked the door, and stepped inside—only to stop cold.
There was a man sitting at our kitchen table. From behind, he looked exactly like Dad. Mom stood at the counter, silently slicing carrots, her gaze locked on the cutting board.
“Mom?” I whispered. She didn’t look up. “Why didn’t you listen?” she said softly.
My brother rushed in behind me, froze, and stared. The man turned—and though his face wasn’t quite the same, the resemblance was uncanny. Mom finally spoke, tears filling her eyes.
“This is James,” she said. “Your father’s twin brother.” We were stunned. We’d never even known Dad had a brother.