It began the very night I moved in with Julian.
His mother, Maura, had warmly offered me the guest room “just until you’re back on your feet.” I thought it was kind—maybe even generous. After a tough streak that ended with me losing my apartment, Julian—my boyfriend of two years—said it made sense. We’d already talked about living together soon, anyway.
But Maura clearly had a different perspective.
That first dinner? Lamb chops, green beans with almonds, and a red wine she claimed was “far superior to what I normally drink.” I barely touched my food—not because I wasn’t hungry, but because she kept calling me Kira.
Julian’s ex.
At first, I brushed it off as a misunderstanding. Maybe I’d misheard. Maybe it slipped out. But by the third night, when she served salmon Wellington and said, “Kira always adored this one,” while looking me straight in the eye—I knew it was deliberate.
Julian never said a word. He’d just sit there chewing quietly, sipping his wine, offering me these awkward little half-smiles, like he wanted to apologize but couldn’t quite bring himself to.
I asked him about it once—in the laundry room, whispering. His response? “She has her ways.” Then he busied himself folding socks like it was the most urgent task in the world.
The dinners only escalated.
Duck à l’orange. Saffron risotto. Even crème brûlée—which she torched theatrically before saying, “Kira always preferred hers a bit lighter.”
I started eating before they sat down. Volunteered for night shifts just to avoid the meals. But then one evening, I came home to find the table set—for two.
Just Maura and me.
She poured wine and motioned for me to sit. “Julian’s catching up with some old friends,” she said casually, slicing into a perfectly cooked pork loin. “Thought it was time we had a little chat. Woman to woman.”
As I reached for the wine glass, my hand trembling, she leaned in and said softly, “Kira would’ve really appreciated a meal like this.”
My stomach knotted. “Mrs. Harper, my name is Elena.”
She froze mid-bite, fork in midair. For a second, I thought maybe—just maybe—she’d finally see me. Acknowledge me for who I was, not who I wasn’t. But instead, she tilted her head slightly and said, “I see how hard you’re trying, sweetheart. You can cook every casserole in the world, but you’ll never be the woman Julian truly needs.”
Her words stung. I wanted to fire back, to defend myself—but instead, I just shrank. It reminded me of every family gathering where someone forgot my name, every holiday dinner where I felt invisible. But this was worse. Because this time, I wasn’t just trying to fit in—I was competing with someone who wasn’t even in the room.
Over the next few weeks, the tension only deepened. Maura began leaving notes in random places. A sticky by the spice rack: “Kira hated cilantro.” Another on the fridge…