Oh, yes, I feel sure I would know him. How often do we see an actor in a film, made long before or long after a role in which we’re familiar with them, and know—either slowly or all at once—that it is the same person? How often do we suddenly see in our own children a glimpse of our brother, our grandfather, our aunt? That kind of recognition goes deeper than reason or sheer physical resemblance. It can be something as subtle and yet certain as the way they cast a glance upward or the way their mouth reopens after closing on a final consonant; it registers as a match for a deep pattern, and we have them. It’s almost uncanny.
But—as oratio says—if someone came to my door right now and I knew in my gut that it were my son at, say, age 52 (30 years from now), I would have to have a way to reconcile the impossible. I would probably not think that he had traveled through time. It would be easier to believe that I had suffered a mental lapse or had been in a coma for 30 years. —So, not that he had left the future but that I had lost the past.