Suzanne Kidd

The door opened gently, and Nathan froze.

She wasn’t flashy or dramatic—no oversized bosoms shoved into latex, no cartoon heads. Just… radiant. Tall, with auburn hair swept into a casual twist, freckles like constellations across her cheeks. She wore a simple, elegant blouse and jeans that hugged her hips just right. Her smile was easy, a genuine, warm smile, open to possibility.

“Hi,” she said. “Nathan, right?”

He nodded dumbly, still reeling from his previous date. “Yeah.”

“I’m Suzanne. Suzanne Kidd.” She took the flowers, her fingers grazing his. “You’re even cuter than your picture.”

They hit it off immediately. The car ride was filled with warm, funny chatter. She had a way of laughing with her whole body, a soft exhale and a playful tilt of her head. He found himself talking more than usual—less trying, more just being.

Dinner at the bistro was perfect. They shared a bottle of red, swapped embarrassing childhood stories, and finished each other’s sentences in a way that made Nathan’s chest feel lighter than air. No games. No red flags. Just… something real.

Back at her place, they curled onto a cozy couch with fresh drinks in hand. She handed him a scotch, her fingers trailing a little too long against his. Music played low in the background. She tucked one foot beneath her and, without hesitation, began tracing the other stockinged foot up and down his calf.

“You’re… amazing,” Nathan said, heart thudding like a kick drum.

She smiled, warm and soft. “You’re not what I expected. In the best way.”

They talked about childhoods—memories, mistakes, formative moments. Nathan told her about building his first circuit board at nine, about his parents cheering at every science fair.

“I’m close with them,” he said. “Really close. They’re incredible people.”

Her expression shifted. Thoughtful. Distant.

“I had a great family too,” she said. “I mean, the ones who raised me. But… I was adopted. It’s something I’ve always wondered about—what life might’ve been like if I’d been raised by my birth parents.”

Nathan tilted his head. “Do you know who they are?”

“I do. I found out last year. I’ve been thinking about reaching out.” She took a sip of her wine. “Their names are Judith and Alan Mercer. They live on Bramblewood Lane.”

The room tilted. Nathan’s breath caught.

“…What did you say?”

She looked up, a little sheepish. “Judith and Alan. They live—”

“I know where they live,” he whispered. “They’re my parents.”

Suzanne blinked. “What?”

Nathan stood, trembling, his glass nearly slipping from his hand.

“No, no, no…”

The air turned thick and hollow. He felt it—grief, confusion, the ache of a connection that just shattered like porcelain.

He tapped the watch.

“…Sally. Reset.”

“Resetting.”