Chapter 3: Strangers at My Table

I’d barely hung up when a knock sounded at the door—polite, but with a firmness that made it clear this was someone used to being in charge.

My pulse jumped. I tried to act casual, though I felt like an intruder in my own skin.

A woman’s voice came through, careful and practiced: “Sir, you’re awake. Would you like something to eat?”

She was the housekeeper, I realized. A housekeeper. Either I’d made it big, or I’d lost my mind entirely.

Trying not to look lost, I nodded. She soon brought in a tray loaded with steak, mashed potatoes, and a little bowl of green beans—the kind my mom used to make from a can. It looked like something out of a nice steakhouse, a far cry from my college days of microwaved ramen and Kraft mac-and-cheese.

I never imagined I’d live like this, but the comfort food was a tiny anchor in a morning gone sideways. The steak was perfect, the mashed potatoes creamy enough to make me want to cry. Maybe the future wasn’t all bad—if I wasn’t so freaked out.

Trying to sound nonchalant, I asked, "So... is my wife working late again?" My voice felt brittle. I was fishing for answers, afraid to ask too much.

She looked surprised, then explained my wife was on a business trip—gone until next month. A month. Was that normal? Or just another sign something was off?

I kept my face neutral, nodded, and tried not to let my confusion show. My heart pounded so hard I could barely taste the food.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the kid peeking in from the hallway, just his big brown eyes and a shock of messy hair showing. He hovered behind the banister, hope and hesitation in his posture.

I waved him over, forcing my voice into what I hoped was a friendly dad tone. “Hey, buddy, come here.”

He flinched, but shuffled forward, step by careful step, like he expected me to snap at any moment. He paused at the edge of the rug, searching my face for a hint of anger.

Why was he so scared of me? My chest tightened. Had I turned into that guy?

I scratched my head, tried to sound gentle. “Hey there, what’s your name? How old are you?”

He blinked, confused, as if he couldn’t believe his own dad was asking this.

After a moment, he said, “I’m Jamie, but everyone calls me Finn. I’m four and a half. Almost five.”

Jamie? Finn? I tried to keep it together. “Finn, let me quiz you—what’s your mom’s name?”

He opened his mouth, but—

“Finn, there you are! Time to go downstairs for your lessons. Don’t bother your dad while he’s resting.”

The housekeeper appeared, brisk and apologetic. She hustled Finn away, but he looked back, questions swirling in his big eyes.

I could only nod, feeling useless. As the housekeeper led him away, she shot me a nervous look, never quite meeting my eyes.

Her attitude was strange—wary, like I was a bomb that might go off at any second. Had I really become someone people tiptoed around?

I pushed back the covers and wandered the room in borrowed slippers. Everything looked expensive but cold: framed certificates, generic art, a lone photo of a younger me with a trophy. No sign of a partner. No wedding photos, no perfume, no messy evidence of another life. It felt like a hotel room—nice, but empty. Separate rooms, separate lives. I sat on the bed, staring at beige walls, feeling more alone than ever.