It was an ordinary afternoon at the café when a tired-looking man walked in with two disheveled kids. He sat quietly, ordering only for himself while the children sat silently by the window. I noticed him watching me intently, which made me uneasy, but I tried to ignore it. Then, as I cleaned a nearby table, I saw him hand a folded note to the little girl and gesture toward me. Moments later, he left some money on the table and walked out, leaving the kids behind.

Confused and concerned, I approached the children. “Is your dad coming back?” I asked gently. The girl silently handed me the note he gave her. As I opened it, a chill ran through me: “These are your kids. You have to take care of them.” My hands trembled as I read it again. Beneath the message was an address scrawled hastily in pen. I told my boss there was an emergency, grabbed my keys, and took the kids with me.

We drove in silence to the address listed, my heart pounding the whole way. When we arrived, the house looked strangely familiar. Inside, I found old family photos of me, the man from the café, and the two kids. A woman answered the door and stared at me with tears in her eyes. “Adriana, you’ve come home,” she whispered. She told me she was my mother and that two years ago, I’d been in a terrible car crash and disappeared with no memory of my past.

Everything started falling into place. The man was my husband, Tyler. The children Katie and Luke were mine. I had fled the hospital confused and lost, forgetting everything. Tyler had found me working at the café and didn’t want to scare me, so he left the note. When he walked into the house and held me in his arms, the fog lifted. I remembered. I was finally home surrounded by a family I had loved and lost, but now had the chance to love again.