The Stranger Who Called Me ‘Mom’

It was 6:48 PM on a Monday. The kind of tired where your bones feel like overcooked noodles. I was standing in line at the pharmacy, clutching a box of discount herbal sleep tea and a half-melted chocolate bar I’d convinced myself was self-care.

Then it happened.

A small voice behind me said:

“Mom?”

I turned instinctively, ready to tell some lost child I wasn’t their mom. I’d had this happen before. My face was apparently "default comforting"—something a coworker once said right before making me cry in a team meeting.

But this time was different.

This boy—about eight years old, skinny arms, wild curls, eyes like rain clouds—looked directly at me like he knew me. Like he’d missed me.

“Excuse me?” I said gently.

His face changed. His lips trembled. He blinked.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You just… you look like her.”

Act 1: "I Think I Know You"

I followed him outside.

I know. I know how that sounds. But something about him felt familiar. Not like déjà vu—closer, like an unfinished sentence from a dream you almost remember.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

He hesitated. “Micah.”

I waited. No last name.

“Where are your parents, Micah?”

He pointed vaguely toward the street, where cars passed in streaks of gold and red.

“She’s not here,” he added softly.

“She?”

“My mom.”

I blinked. “But I’m not—”

He cut me off. “You’re not her, I know. But… you look like her. And you smell like her. Like cinnamon and pencils.”

That part knocked the wind out of me.

Cinnamon and pencils.

It’s what my own mother used to say I smelled like when I was a kid. I hadn’t worn cinnamon lotion in years, and I hadn’t touched a pencil in weeks. But somehow, this child knew.

Act 2: The Park Bench

I offered to sit with him on a bench just outside the pharmacy. It was still light out, and the foot traffic made it feel safe enough. I didn’t want to leave him alone.

He climbed up beside me and started swinging his legs.

“She’s gone,” he said after a long pause.

“Your mom?”

He nodded. “But she promised to come back.”

I looked around for a frantic parent or a hovering guardian. Nothing. Just the dull hum of streetlights warming up.

“I don’t want to go to the police,” he said quickly, as if reading my mind. “They won’t believe me.”

“Believe what?”

He turned his head toward me, very slowly.

“That you’re her. Or… a version of her.”

Act 3: “What Do You Mean, a Version?”

I felt a chill crawl across my back.

“What do you mean?”

He fiddled with the sleeve of his hoodie. “It’s like… you’re her. But not from my place.”

I stared at him.

“My place?” I repeated.

He nodded, eyes wide. “My world. It's kinda like this one. But... different. The sky's more orange at night. Birds sing backwards. And my mom—she’s you. But not.”

I blinked again. I half expected a hidden camera crew to leap out from a bush, yelling that I’d been pranked.

But no one came.

“I know it sounds weird,” he said, almost shyly. “But I had to find you.”

“How did you get here?”

He smiled. “I followed your voice.”

Act 4: The Recording

“Micah,” I said carefully, “where do you live?”

He pulled a small, beat-up device from his hoodie pocket. It looked like a music player or a futuristic toy.

He clicked a button, and I heard my own voice.

Not a recording I remembered making. Not anything I ever said. But it was me.

“Micah, if you ever get lost, follow my voice. Listen for the version of me that feels like home.”

My eyes welled up.

“Where did you get this?” I whispered.

He simply said, “She gave it to me. Before she disappeared.”

Act 5: The Woman in the Yellow Coat

As we sat there in stunned silence, a flash of color caught my eye.

A woman in a bright yellow coat walked past us on the sidewalk, paused briefly, and turned to look at me.

And in her eyes, I saw it.

Recognition.

But not of me. Of him.

She mouthed something I couldn’t hear. Micah didn’t see her. But I did.

And when I turned my head to tell him, she was gone.

Vanished.

Like fog in headlights.

Act 6: “I Think She Was Looking for You Too”

I told Micah what I saw. He asked questions I didn’t know how to answer. Then he looked down at the device in his hand.

“She’s close,” he said softly.

“What if I help you find her?” I asked.

He looked up, eyes gleaming. “Would you?”

“I can’t promise I’ll understand everything,” I said. “But I’ll try.”

He took my hand.

It felt like forgiveness. Or maybe like fate.

Act 7: An Impossible Goodbye

We spent the next few hours wandering the streets together. Talking. Laughing. Eating French fries at a diner where the waitress didn’t question why a tired woman and a curious little boy were drawing maps on napkins.

And then, just as the sky turned orange—exactly the way he described it—he said:

“There.”

A shimmer in the air. Like heat waves off asphalt.

A flicker.

And then, her.

Me—but older. Stronger. Eyes filled with a thousand sleepless nights and infinite softness.

She knelt.

Micah ran to her. She wrapped him in a hug that looked like it had taken a lifetime to happen.

I stood frozen. Watching myself. Watching them.

She looked at me.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice somehow inside my head.

“I don’t understand,” I replied.

She smiled. “You will. Someday. When you become me.”

Act 8: Alone Again—But Not

When they stepped into the shimmer, it closed behind them like a zipper on reality.

I sat on that bench long after they were gone. The cinnamon scent lingered. So did the warmth of his hand in mine.

And something else.

The device.

Micah had left it behind.

Final Act: Rewind

That night, I clicked play.

My voice again.

“You won’t remember giving this to him. But you will one day. When it’s your turn. When the sky turns orange and the lines between worlds blur.

You’re not just a person.

You’re a bridge.”

I cried.

Not because I was sad.

But because somehow, I felt like I had lived a thousand lives in a single evening.

Closing Note

People think you need to have kids to understand unconditional love.

Sometimes, you just need one moment—with someone who looks at you like you're home.

Even if he came from another world.

Even if you only held his hand for one night.

Even if he called you Mom.