I didn’t think much about it at first.
People in my hometown stare at everybody. Especially when you come back after ten years with a kid nobody’s ever met before.
But by the second day, it started getting weird.
Not dramatic weird. Small weird.
At the diner, the waitress brought Ethan a cherry Coke without asking what he wanted. Then she laughed nervously and said, “Sorry. Habit.”
Marcus always ordered cherry Coke there.
At the hardware store, an older man looked at Ethan and said, “Damn. Haven’t seen that walk in a long time.”
I asked what he meant.
He just grabbed his receipt and left.
That night I dug through old photos at my mother’s house because the whole thing had gotten under my skin. Ethan sat on the floor beside me half-watching TV while I flipped through albums.
Then he picked up one picture from senior year.
Marcus standing beside my old car holding a paper plate from some barbecue.
Ethan stared at it for a second and went, “Whoa.”
Not shocked. Just casual.
“Mom, that guy smiles like me.”
I laughed it off way too fast.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from a number I didn’t recognize.
You should ask Marcus why he paid your hospital bill the month Ethan was born.
No name attached.
Just that.
I sat there staring at the screen while Ethan kept flipping through photos beside me.
Then from the kitchen my mother suddenly said, real quiet, “He told us you already knew.”