When my son was five, he’d point at a local news anchor and yell, “Daddy!” My wife would laugh and say kids live in their own world. I joked along, changed the channel, never thought twice.
Nine years later, the same anchor—Rafael Medina—popped up on TV. I called into the kitchen, “Tomas! Come see your TV dad!” He walked in, took one look at the screen, and went white.
“His name’s Rafael Medina, right?” he said.
“Yeah,” I said slowly. “Why?”
“I’ve seen him before,” Tomas whispered. “Not just on TV.”
My wife, Clara, came in wiping her hands on a towel. She gave Tomas a quick scan, then looked at me like there was a conversation we should’ve had years ago. Tomas stared at the screen, then said, steady and small:
“I think he’s my real dad.”
Silence. I tried to laugh and swallowed glass instead. Tomas stormed upstairs. His door shut—no slam, just a heavy, final click.
I turned to Clara. “What is he talking about?”
