"You're My Dad!" A Boy Showed Up at My Doorstep with a Backpack Full of Secrets – Story of the Day

A six-year-old boy showed up on my doorstep, claiming I was his dad. I laughed—until he pulled out a letter from his mother. My name. My address. My past crashed into my present. And I had no idea what to do next.

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 he had pulled out of his backpack.

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

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.

"Fine. One night. Tomorrow, I'll figure out how to send you back."

I walked into the kitchen, grabbed a cereal box from the cupboard, poured some into a bowl, and shoved it toward him.

"Eat."

Ethan didn't move. He just stared at the bowl, then at me.

"What?"

"Mom always opened the milk before pouring it."

I sighed sharply, grabbed the milk carton, twisted the cap, and placed it on the table.

"There. Opened."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Don't call me that. We don't even know if..."

"Okay, Dad. I mean, Mister…"

I exhaled sharply and poured myself a bowl of cereal. I sat down and took a bite when I noticed him still watching me.

"What now?"

"Aren't you going to wash your hands first?"

I groaned. "What?"

"Mom always made me wash my hands before eating."

"Listen, kid..." I put my spoon down, my patience wearing thin. "You didn't come here to lecture me on hygiene."

"It's just… Mom said..."

"If your mom was so perfect, you can go back to her tomorrow!"

He fell silent. Then, his voice dropped to a whisper.

"Mom is dead."

I stopped chewing. The spoon in my hand suddenly felt too heavy.

"I ran away to find you," Ethan admitted, looking down at his lap.

I looked at him, really looked at him.

"Eat. Then get some sleep. I'll figure out what to do in the morning."

Ethan nodded and started eating. As we sat silently, he absentmindedly stirred his cereal with his spoon.

"I was saving up for a LEGO space station," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"I was saving my pocket money for months," Ethan explained. "But I spent everything on bus tickets and food trying to find you."

He said it so casually, like it wasn't a big deal. Like it was normal for a six-year-old to empty his savings and travel across the city alone. I didn't know what to say.

I watched as he finished his cereal and quietly went to the bathroom. I expected a mess, but the kid took care of himself.

He showered, brushed his teeth, and even combed his hair, pulling a neatly packed brush from his perfectly organized backpack.

Is he really my son? He looks like me… but still.

Clara had no right to barge into my life after six years—especially not through her kid. I wasn't just mad at her. Honestly, I was mad at myself. Because for the first time, I realized something. I could have had a family.

"Goodnight, Dad," Ethan mumbled sleepily from his spot on the couch.

I didn't correct him that time. Before he closed his eyes, he whispered one last thing.

"I wish my family could be with me for my birthday."

I stared at him in the dim light. Then, I silently turned off the lamp.

***

I was never the sentimental type, but leaving the kid alone on his birthday just felt... wrong.

I told myself it was just for one day. One day to make him happy, then he’d be someone else’s responsibility again. That’s all.

No emotional strings attached. Just the bare minimum—a little ice cream, a few rides, and then I’d send him on his way.

That was the plan. But the moment we stepped into the amusement park, I knew I had underestimated him.

"This is amazing!"

Ethan practically bounced on his toes, his eyes darting from the towering Ferris wheel to the spinning teacups, from the colorful balloons to the smell of cotton candy in the air. He looked like a kid who had just stepped into a dream.

I swallowed hard, watching him take it all in. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling. Something unfamiliar. Something I didn’t have a name for.

Not pride. No, not quite. Something that made my chest feel too tight.

"Where do you wanna start?" I asked.

Ethan gasped. "We get to choose?"

"What, you thought I’d just throw you on the scariest ride and call it a day?"

He grinned. "Kinda."

I rolled my eyes. "Hurry up, kid, before I change my mind."

He grabbed my hand without thinking, tugging me toward the closest ride. His fingers were small, warm, and trusting. And just like that, I felt it again—that strange, tight feeling in my chest.

Then I saw HER. A woman near the carousel, scanning the crowd. Red hair catching the sunlight.

"This can’t be… Clara."

"Hey, Mom!" Ethan called out, waving enthusiastically.

He turned toward me, a guilty smile creeping onto his face.

"What did you do?"

"I wanted you two to meet."

I stared at him in disbelief. "Tell me you didn’t."

"Sorry, Dad," he said, looking way too pleased with himself. "Had to make up a few details."

Then, before I could say another word, he winked at me and hopped onto the carousel. I exhaled sharply, running a hand through my hair.

Come on, kid.

And then Clara was walking toward me. "Is it really you?"

"It’s me."

Clara smirked. "Ethan sent me a message from an unknown number. Guess it was from your phone."

I groaned. "Well, you raised him to be a schemer."

"I raised him alone. And he’s a great kid."

"Of course. Alone." I scoffed, my patience snapping. "Since you never even thought to tell me I had a son."

She flinched, just for a second, before straightening.

"You had no right to keep him from me."

My frustration bubbled over, spilling out before I could stop it.

"And you had no right to be so irresponsible!" Clara's eyes blazed. "You never wanted kids!"

"You never gave me a chance to decide!"

"Would it have changed anything?"

I opened my mouth, ready to argue, but—nothing came out.

Would it have? I don’t know. I never know.

"Maybe I would’ve been a good father. But thanks to you, I’ll never get that chance. Now, I don’t like kids. Or liars."

I turned away before she could see anything else in my expression.

Ethan was waving at me from the carousel, his small hand reaching out, eyes bright with joy.

"Dad! Dad!"

But I was already walking away. Blinded by the anger clawing at my chest. And I didn’t know yet that I would regret it.

***

Days passed. I told myself I didn't care. That it was for the best.

But Ethan lingered in my mind: the way he smiled and called me Dad, and the way his eyes sparkled when he talked about family. Then, I found his backpack.

At first, I hesitated. I had no business going through his stuff. But then I unzipped it and pulled out a stack of papers. Drawings. The first one was simple—stick figures holding hands.

Caption: "Me and my Dad. Ethan, 3 years old."

The second had a taller figure holding a smaller one by the hand. "Me and my Dad. Ethan, 4 years old."

The third one was more detailed. There were a lot of drawings with me.

And the last one… it was the most recent. It showed the same three figures with a birthday cake in front of them. Caption:

"Me, Mom, and Dad. My Family."

I stared at it, my throat tightening. The kid had spent years drawing a father he had never met. A father he still believed in.

I knew what I had to do.

I bought the Lego, the one his mother could never afford. Then, I drove to their address. Clara's address. I had seen it scribbled on the back of the journal pages Ethan had shown me.

When she opened the door, her eyes widened in shock.

"You came back..."

I exhaled and handed Ethan the Lego set.

"Happy Birthday, kid."

For a moment, he just stared. Then, with a wide grin, he lunged at me, wrapping his arms around my waist. I hesitated before placing a hand on his back.

"Do you have someone?" I asked Clara, watching as Ethan ran off to open his gift.

"No. I've been alone this whole time. I have our son." I glanced back at Ethan. "Mind if I stay for a while?"

"I'd like that."

That evening, we built the Lego set together and ate ice cream, just the three of us. We had time to make up for. Clara and I had changed. But somehow, we had held onto enough warmth between us. Maybe we had a chance to start over.

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This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only.