Why would my son choose to sleep on the floor?
I glanced toward the staircase.
My husband wasn’t downstairs.
His car was outside, his shoes were by the front door, and his phone sat charging on the kitchen counter.
He had to be home.
Then I heard it.
A faint laugh drifted from Ethan’s bedroom upstairs.
It was followed by the scrape of a chair across the hardwood floor.
Someone was awake.
Slowly, I climbed the stairs.
The bedroom door was almost closed, leaving only a narrow crack of light spilling into the hallway.
I held my breath and pushed it open.
An elderly man I’d never seen before was sitting on my son’s bed, carefully arranging framed family photographs across the dresser as though he had lived there for years.
Standing beside him was my husband.
When he looked up and saw me in the doorway, every trace of color disappeared from his face.
“I can explain,” he whispered.
The old man turned toward me with a warm smile.
“There you are,” he said softly. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten our home.”
I had never seen him before in my life.
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