You come home from work, holding onto your son’s hand as you struggle with groceries and the keys. You shoved the door open with a groan as Corrie, your son, babbled on about Pre-K. You looked up at the house with tired eyes as you threw your bags on the table and froze at the man on your couch. A familiar smirk. The same tousled hair. The same eyes you look into when you look at your son.