Mornings were predictable. Quiet. Peaceful. Just the way I liked them. I didn’t need an alarm. No boss, no office, no reason to rush anywhere.

My work was remote, and I kept my world as small as possible. No forced social interactions, no unnecessary chit-chat. Just me, my laptop, and my coffee. Black, no sugar, no milk.

That morning, I settled into my usual spot by the window, my old wooden chair creaking under my weight. That’s how life was supposed to be. Simple. Quiet. But quiet never lasted long in this neighborhood.

Suddenly, a loud thump against my window made me flinch, sloshing coffee onto my hand. I let out a sharp hiss.

"Oh, for crying out loud," I muttered, rubbing the scalded skin.

I didn’t need to look outside to know what happened. The little monsters next door had done it again. Those kids had no respect for personal property.

I pushed myself up with a groan and stomped toward the front door.

Swinging the door open, I found the usual scene: a soccer ball lying on my grass and the neighbor’s kids frozen at the edge of their yard, whispering among themselves.

"How many times do I have to tell you..." I bent down, grabbing the ball. "This is not my problem. Keep it on your side of the fence!"

I tossed the ball back. Kids giggled and scattered like startled pigeons. With a tired sigh, I turned back to my house only to stop mid-step. That’s when I noticed him.

A red-haired kid, not one of the usual troublemakers, standing at the far end of my porch.

He was wearing an oversized raincoat that swallowed him up. His shoes looked scuffed, his backpack worn out. I frowned.

"You’re not from around here."

The boy met my gaze without flinching.

"No."

"So, what are you doing here?"

He inhaled like he was about to say something huge. And then...

"Because you’re my dad."

I blinked, convinced I’d misheard.

"What?"

"You’re my dad," he repeated like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for some hidden camera crew to jump out and yell, "Gotcha!"

Nothing. Just a six-year-old boy standing on my porch, looking at me. I rubbed my face.

"Okay. Either I need more coffee, or this is a dream."

"It’s not a dream."

I let out a dry laugh. "Yeah? Well, that’s unfortunate, kid, because I’m pretty sure you have the wrong guy."

He shook his head. "No. I don’t."

I glanced around. The street was empty. No frantic mother looking for her lost child. No social worker chasing after a runaway.

Just me, my unwanted visitor, and a whole lot of confusion. Great. Just great.

"Listen, uh…" I scratched the back of my head. "You got a name?"

"Ethan."

"Ethan." I nodded slowly. "Okay. And, uh, Ethan… does your mom know you’re here?"

Silence. Something about the way he looked at me made my usual irritation falter.

"Alright, kid. Let’s figure this out. Because I have no idea what’s going on here."

Ethan nodded like he had all the time in the world. Like he knew I wasn’t about to slam the door in his face. And that irritated me most of all.

***

Minutes later, we sat in my kitchen. Ethan was quietly looking around, while I read a torn page from his mother’s journal—the one of his backpack.

I read the letter again and again, even though the words were already burned into my brain. Tears slowly filled my eyes.

It was a page torn from a journal. His mother's handwriting.

"Ethan, my son, if anything ever happens to me, he is the only person left—your father."

My name. My address. My breath felt heavy.

"This has to be a joke, right?" I exhaled, tossing the paper onto the table.

The kid stood still, watching me.

"You and Mom haven't seen each other in six years, right?"

"Yeah, but…"

"And I turn six tomorrow," he added, a small, knowing smile forming on his lips.

Damn it.

"You can't stay here."

"It's too wet to go anywhere now."

I checked the window. Outside, the rain came down hard.