My mom’s been the glue of our family, especially since Dad passed three years ago. He’d been her partner for 32 years, and without him she was lost. So Brian and I made a pact: we’d never let her feel alone.
I began dropping by every Tuesday with groceries or help, and Brian came every Friday to fix things. But Sundays were sacred—family dinner at her house. Eight of us around that scratched kitchen table, eating her famous roast chicken, passed down from her mother, with her secret ingredient: love.
Every Sunday morning, she’d text: “Dinner at 6. Bring tupperware.” For three years, that was our routine—until one Sunday I opened my phone to: “Please don’t come today.” No emoji. No explanation. My heart sank.
Brian and I rushed over. The house felt wrong—curtains drawn, porch light still on. No answer at the door, so I used my spare key. Inside, a man sat at the kitchen table. From behind, he wore Dad’s shirt. Then he turned. He was Dad’s spitting image—only older.
Mom stood at the counter, slicing carrots. She admitted the man was James—Dad’s twin brother, a family secret. Apparently, before Dad, Mom had loved James. He left her heartbroken; Dad helped her heal. They married, had us, and buried that past. Dad forgave Mom, but cut off James. Mom kept him secret. For 30 years.
James had reappeared last week—to apologize, to ask for a second chance. Unnerved, we told him to leave. He left. Mom collapsed in tears, confessing the guilt she’d carried.
I held her hand. Brian fetched tissues. I reminded her she gave us an amazing childhood and that Dad knew he was her soulmate. She said seeing James made her remember her past, not reclaim it.
So that night—pizza and tea instead of roast chicken—we sat at the table as always. And at 9 p.m., Mom texted: “Dinner next Sunday. 6 p.m. Bring tupperware. And maybe a hug.”