The knock came at 2:07 p.m.

I remember the time exactly because I was elbow-deep in lemon-scented foam, scrubbing the kitchen backsplash, thinking about how Hayden usually remembered to pick up oat milk—and sometimes croissants—on his way home. He wasn’t supposed to be back for another three hours.

I wiped my damp hands on a dish towel and padded barefoot to the front door.

There he stood. My husband.

Hayden was in a gray hoodie, his work lanyard still around his neck. Something about him felt…off. He didn’t smile. Didn’t kiss me. Didn’t call me “sweetheart” or “moonpie” or any of the ridiculous names that usually softened my day.

He stepped inside without touching me, eyes darting around the apartment like he didn’t recognize it.

“I wasn’t feeling well. My boss let me go early,” he mumbled.

I closed the door slowly behind him. A ripple of unease tightened in my chest.

“You okay?” I asked.

No answer. He walked toward our bedroom like he was on a mission. I followed, confused.

Inside, the freshly smoothed bed was already wrinkled. He rummaged through drawers, opened the closet, the nightstand, rifling like a stranger searching for something he shouldn’t be touching.

“What are you looking for?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

He paused—only briefly—like he had forgotten I existed.

“Something for work.”

“That specific?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Just give me a sec, babe.”

My stomach dropped.

Hayden never called me “babe.” He called me “Mar.” Or “Mouse,” when he was being particularly affectionate. But never that.

Our cat, Waffles, padded quietly into the doorway. She adored Hayden. Slept curled at his feet every night. But this time, she froze. Her back arched. Her tail puffed. Then she hissed.

The man glanced over.

“We still have that thing?” he muttered, eyes on Waffles.

My blood ran cold. Hayden would never speak about her like that. He adored that cat like she was his child.

“Hayden…” I said slowly, carefully. “Maybe you should lie down. Or go to urgent care. I’ll drive. Maybe you just need soup and—”

He cut me off, standing straight.

“Where’s our emergency stash? I can’t find it. I need it for work.”

My breath caught. “What stash?”

“You said it was in the bedroom,” he insisted, his tone sharp.

“We don’t keep cash in the house,” I said, heart hammering.

“Yes, we do. I remember you told me after the break-ins down the road.”

And that’s when I knew—I needed to play along.

“Oh, right,” I said slowly, backing toward the stairs. “Sorry, I forgot… we moved it. It’s in the basement now, under the vanity.”

His eyes lit up. For the first time since he walked in, he looked… pleased.

“Show me,” he said.

I opened the basement door and flipped the light on. I stood aside. “Right under there,” I pointed. “I’ll be down in a second—just grabbing some water.”

He passed me and descended two steps.

Then I slammed the door and locked it.

I ran to the porch, shaking, and dialed the only number I could.

Hayden. The real Hayden.

He answered on the first ring.

“Mar? Everything okay?”

“There’s a man in the basement pretending to be you,” I said, voice breaking. “Please come home. Now.”

Silence.

“I’m coming. Don’t go near the door. Try to jam it from the outside. Call the police. Stay outside.”

I used the handle of an umbrella to wedge the door shut tighter. Then I sat on the porch, breath hitching, heart thudding, trying not to cry.

Waffles was nowhere to be seen.

Hayden arrived twenty minutes later, pale and breathless. Waffles darted out from under the porch and coiled around his legs, her tail flicking with familiar affection.

“What happened?” he asked, panic in his voice.

I told him everything. His face drained of color.

We waited for the police in silence.

Ten minutes later, officers arrived. The man came up quietly, hands raised. No fight.

He looked like Hayden—but hollowed out. Same eyes, colder. Same face, no soul.

His name was Grant.

He told the officers everything. How he met Hayden at a bar two months ago. How they’d exchanged birthdays. Realized they were born the same day, in the same city. How he followed Hayden, studied our routines, learned our lives.

“I never had a family,” he said. “I just wanted to know what it felt like. Just for a while.”

A hospital clerical error. Adoption files. Twins separated at birth.

An entire life missed.

Hayden sat beside me, stunned. “I didn’t believe him at the bar. Thought he was full of it.”

I turned to him, jaw tight.

“You didn’t tell me? That someone identical to you showed up and said you might be brothers?”

“I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to bring that into our life. I didn’t know how.”

“Well, now he’s been in our life. He was in our bedroom, Hayden.”

Waffles hissed again at the memory, curling into my lap.

“I’m sorry,” Hayden whispered. “But how do you wrap your head around the fact that someone lived your life—without any of the good parts?”

He didn’t press charges. Grant was released into temporary housing.

But something had cracked open.

A week later, Hayden offered him a job.

“We need help at the warehouse. It’ll give him income. But he’s not staying here,” I said firmly as I cooked. “This isn’t a Netflix reunion movie.”

“I know,” Hayden replied. “But I can’t pretend he doesn’t exist. He’s my brother.”

A few nights later, we invited him for dinner.

I made too much food. Lamb. Salad. Mashed potatoes. Dessert. My nerves needed something to focus on besides the weight of the occasion.

Grant arrived ten minutes early. Waffles didn’t hiss this time—but she didn’t approach, either.

He sat at the table, posture closed, quiet. Barely touched his food. Said thank you. Said he didn’t expect this.

Later, as Hayden hugged me from behind at the window, I said, “It’s messy.”

“But it’s real,” he whispered.

Weeks passed. Grant stayed distant, working shifts, texting occasionally.

Sometimes, I still watch that security footage—the man walking in, pretending.

It’s haunting. But Waffles knew. I knew.

And Hayden? He never called me “babe” again.