For three years after their father’s passing, Isabella and her brother Brian had a sacred family ritual: weekly Sunday dinners at their mother’s house. Their mom, who had been profoundly affected by her husband’s death, relied on these gatherings, and her famous roast chicken, as the glue holding their family together. Every Sunday morning, a simple text, “Dinner at 6. Bring tupperware,” was their unchanging invitation.
However, one Sunday, Isabella’s phone lit up with a different, chilling message: “Please don’t come today.” There were no emojis, no explanation, just a cold finality that was completely unlike her mother. Isabella immediately texted back, “Are you okay?” but received no reply. A frantic call from Brian confirmed he hadn’t reached their mom either. A sense of dread settled in, and they both sped towards her house.
The short drive felt endless. Isabella called repeatedly, but each time it went to voicemail. She tried to rationalize her mom’s unusual behavior, but a deep intuition told her something was terribly wrong. Pulling into the driveway, she noticed the drawn curtains and the porch light still on, unusual for that time of day. Her knocks on the front door went unanswered, so she used the spare key.
The moment Isabella stepped inside, she froze. A man, with gray hair and wearing a familiar light blue shirt—the very one she had given her dad seven years ago—was sitting at the kitchen table with his back to her. Her mom was at the counter, methodically slicing carrots, her back turned, seemingly oblivious. “Mom?!” Isabella screamed, demanding an explanation. Her mother, without turning, murmured, “I didn’t want you to come today. Why didn’t you listen?” Just then, Brian burst in, equally stunned.
As the man slowly turned, Isabella screamed. The face looking back at them was undeniably their father’s. A more weathered version, but his eyes, nose, and mouth. Tears streamed down their mother’s face as she finally turned to them. “This is… this is your uncle,” she stammered. Isabella and Brian exchanged disbelieving glances. “Your father’s twin brother,” their mom continued, explaining that their father had kept his brother’s existence a secret, never wanting them to know.
Isabella felt anger bubbling up. Brian, demanding answers, confronted the man, James, about suddenly appearing after 30 years. James admitted he wanted to apologize and ask for a second chance, reaching up to unbutton their father’s shirt, which he had been wearing. Watching him remove the shirt felt like a desecration. Without shouting, they simply asked James to leave, and he did.
After he left, their mom collapsed in tears, confessing, “I did a terrible thing to your father. To James. To you.” Isabella and Brian comforted her, assuring her that she had given them a wonderful childhood and that they knew she loved their dad. Their mom explained that seeing James brought back memories, reminding her why she had let go of that past. That night, they stayed with her, ordering pizza and making tea, sitting around the familiar table. At 9 p.m., a new message appeared in their family group chat: “Dinner next Sunday. 6 p.m. Bring tupperware. And maybe a hug.”