After the death of our father three years ago, our mother became the emotional anchor of the family. My brother Brian and I made a promise to never let her feel alone. I visited every Tuesday, Brian came by on Fridays, and Sundays were sacred—Mom’s weekly family dinner that brought everyone together around the old kitchen table.
Each Sunday, she’d make her famous roast chicken, always texting “Dinner at 6. Bring Tupperware.” It was a comforting routine we upheld for years, until one Sunday morning when her message simply read, “Please don’t come today.” It was abrupt and cold—completely unlike her. Concerned, Brian and I rushed to her house but couldn’t reach her by phone.
When we arrived, something felt off. The porch light was still on, and the curtains were drawn. We let ourselves in and were shocked to find a man sitting at the kitchen table—wearing one of Dad’s old shirts. Mom stood nearby, distant and silent. The man turned around, revealing a face eerily like Dad’s. We were stunned.
Mom revealed the man was James—Dad’s estranged brother and her first love. She had once been in love with James, but he disappeared. Heartbroken, she married Dad, who loved and supported her. When James recently resurfaced, he wanted forgiveness and a second chance. We asked him to leave, overwhelmed by the truth.
Mom broke down in tears, full of regret. But we reassured her of our love. That night, we comforted her at the same old table. And by 9 p.m., dinner was back on for next Sunday.